Not A Sound

Stitch came to me with his own baggage. A thick, zipper-like scar extends vertically from the bottom of his belly to just below his throat. Hence his name. “Some sick fuck. Over one hundred stitches,” Vilem wrote on a pad of paper when I asked what had happened.

I stroke Stitch’s head and wait for help, knowing that it could arrive in a matter of minutes or not for up to an hour. There are only three ways to get to our remote location: by boat, by four-wheeler or by foot. I focus my attention on Stitch’s ears; if they start to twitch I know he hears something. My bet is help will come via the river and a Department of Natural Resources officer with a boat. Up until now I have never been afraid around the dead and now I’m terrified.

I can’t believe Gwen is dead and I can’t help but think of my own accident, which I’m not convinced was an accident, after all. What if Gwen’s murder and my attempted murder are connected? Crazy, I know. But Gwen and I both treated patients who were abused by very bad, very dangerous people. Is it such a stretch to think they would come after the nurses who were trying to gather the forensic evidence to put them in jail for a very long time?

Stitch raises his head and looks at me with worry. I must have whimpered or spoken out loud. I do that sometimes without even knowing it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. My throat is sore and I figure I must have been shouting while I was talking to the 9-1-1 dispatcher. What if the person on the other end of the line couldn’t understand me? What if they don’t know where to send help and no one is coming?

I’m just about ready to call 9-1-1 again when Stitch scrambles to his feet and faces north and up the river. “Two if by sea,” I say, holding on to Stitch’s collar so he won’t run off.

Sure enough, a heavyset man of about sixty, steering a small boat with the Iowa DNR logo emblazoned across its side motors toward us. Stitch looks up at me for reassurance, and I gently pat his back. The boat slows and the DNR officer says something, but he’s too far away and I can’t read his lips.

“I can’t hear you,” I say, and the officer’s mouth widens in a way that tells me he’s shouting.

“No, I’m deaf,” I say, cupping my ear. “I can’t hear you. Come closer.” He looks at me suspiciously, hand on his sidearm. I can’t say that I blame him. I’m sure I sounded like a maniac on the 9-1-1 call. The dispatcher most likely added “approach subject with caution” when passing on the details.

“I can read lips,” I say. “I just need to see your face.”

He drives the boat up to the shore and with some difficulty climbs over the side and joins us beneath the birch. “Is he friendly?” the officer asks, glancing nervously down at Stitch.

“Very,” I assure him. I turn to Stitch and palm upward, bring my hand toward my shoulder. Immediately, he sits down. I reach into my pocket and pull out a dog treat and Stitch snags it with his long pink tongue. “Good boy.” That trick took three weeks to master.

The officer takes another cautious step forward. “I’m DNR Officer Wagner. Are you okay?” His lips stretch wide with each word. He’s overenunciating. I’m used to this when people first find out about my hearing loss.

“I’m fine,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “She’s over there.” I point to the maple tree. “Just over the ridge, in the water.”

“Stay here,” he orders. I pretend I don’t understand him and follow him up the incline, both of us grabbing onto low-hanging branches to avoid slipping on the slick decaying leaves that litter the ground. When we reach the crest my eyes immediately go to where Gwen’s body sways with the gentle current. Officer Wagner’s head swivels from left to right, searching. When his spine goes rigid I know he finally sees her. He gropes into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone and presses it to his ear.

I bend at the waist, again light-headed. I was an ER nurse for eighteen-odd years. I’ve seen people come in with injuries beyond comprehension. I’ve seen dead bodies before, have had people die from catastrophic injuries in my care. But always at the hospital, in a sterile, antiseptic setting.

I force myself to stand upright and take a deep breath. I feel useless. If there was a chance Gwen was still breathing I could have given her CPR, but it’s clear that she’s dead. Gwen is a bit younger than I am, and she’s fit—has the slim physique of a serious runner. Was she running or hiking the trails and then waylaid by a predator who dragged her off the path, raped and then killed her, finally tossing her into the river like trash?

From our vantage point, I can’t see any obvious injuries. No bullet holes, no gaping wounds, no scavengers have discovered her. She can’t have been in the river long. I think of the waves that knocked Stitch off my paddleboard and sent me to my knees just before I found Gwen’s body. I wish I saw what the boat looked like. I wish I had more information to offer the police. I wonder if her husband, Marty, has missed her yet. Or worse, could he have been the one to do this? I don’t know him well, but I met him several times. Gwen never mentioned having any problems in their marriage and he seemed like a nice man. And then there is their daughter, Lane. She will be devastated when she learns that her mother is never coming back home.

I swallow back my tears, pull my eyes from the body and scan the earth around me. Muddy footprints everywhere. I think I can discern three different shoe treads. Most likely my own and the DNR officer’s, and possibly the killer’s. There are also the imprints of Stitch’s large paws zigzagging the ground chronicling his agitation. Off in the brush is a discarded glass beer bottle. It could have belonged to one of the ever-growing number of weekend warriors who have discovered this length of river due to the opening of Five Mines Outfitters, located right next door to my house. The outfitter offers an array of outdoor services including canoe, kayak, paddleboard and in the winter, snowshoe and ice skate rentals.

Below us Stitch waits, wiggling impatiently while somehow remaining in a seated position. I gesture for him to settle and stay and he complies. Officer Wagner tugs on my sleeve and nods toward the woods below us. Emerging from the trees is a small troupe of four-wheelers. Unable to contain himself, Stitch leaps to his feet and begins to spin around in excitement.

Five of the six people on the ATVs are law enforcement officers, including Jake. The lone civilian I recognize as my new neighbor, the proprietor of Five Mines Outfitters. We’ve never officially met, but I hate him anyway. The day he opened his business he brought a steady stream of unwanted strangers into my backyard, disrupting my solitude. The four-wheelers most likely belong to my neighbor and the Mathias Police Department commandeered them and asked him to lead the way through the woods so they could get to the scene as quickly as possible. Jake and the four other officers slide from their ATVs and begin to move toward us, leaving my neighbor behind.

Stitch knows Jake so he greets him with an enthusiastic wag of his bottle brush tail and attaches himself to Jake’s side. When the officers reach the bottom of the bluff, Jake says something to the group and they remain below as he and Stitch make the short climb to where Officer Wagner and I wait.

Jake still has the same boyish good looks that he did thirty years ago. Seeing him in his detective’s uniform of a suit and tie makes me smile at the incongruity of how I remember him as a kid. He was a constant at our house, preferring ours to his own. His father was volatile, unpredictable, mean. Daily, he’d show up with his mussed sandy-brown hair, smelling of fresh cut grass and bubble gum, dressed in grubby jeans, scuffed tennis shoes and a purple-and-gold Minnesota Vikings T-shirt in search of my brother.

Jake’s normally cheerful face is now set in rigid seriousness and he’s oblivious to the mud that has caked his dress shoes and splattered onto his suit pants. He’s not even out of breath when he reaches us, a testament to the great physical shape he’s in. Instead of first asking where the victim is, he eyes me up and down. He winces at the sight of my bloodstained shirt, extends the index finger of both his hands and brings them toward each other, the right hand twisting one way and the left hand the other, making the ASL sign for hurt.

“I tripped,” I explain, holding up my hands. “It looks worse than it is.” He takes my hands in his and turns them over to examine my cut and scraped palms. His grasp is warm against my chilled fingers and I realize just how cold I am.

“Her name is Gwen Locke. I know her. We worked together. She’s been to my house,” I say. “I’ve been to hers.”

Jake looks surprised but doesn’t ask me if I’m sure of the woman’s identity. He releases my hands, and I immediately miss his warmth. He turns his attention to the DNR officer. Wagner points to the water, and a muscle in Jake’s jaw twitches and once again he becomes all business.

“Go back down by your paddleboard,” he signs. “We have to seal off this area. I’ll be right down to take your statement and Officer Snell will make sure you get home safely.” I nod, and Jake gives me a wisp of a smile as if to let me know that everything will be all right. I want to believe him.

Officer Snell, with his closely cropped hair and smattering of acne across his forehead, looks to be barely out of his teens. He’s waiting, pen and pad already in hand by the time I reach him. Cold has seeped through my pants, still damp from wading through the water and from my tumble to the ground and I begin to shiver.

“Just a few questions, ma’am,” Snell begins, but I quickly lose the thread and stop him.

“Maybe we should wait for Jake. Detective Schroeder,” I amend. “He knows sign.” Officer Snell nods his understanding and we stand around awkwardly until Jake makes his way down to us.

Jake knows how to talk to me. Not only does he know sign, he looks me right in the eye and keeps his sentences short. I answer out loud while Snell writes down my answers. He covers all the expected questions: name, address, phone number, age.

“You say you know her?” Jake signs.

I nod. “Her name is Gwen Locke. She’s a county sexual assault nurse and last I knew was a nurse at Queen of Peace and Mathias Regional.” I try to keep one eye on Stitch who grows bored and wanders away. His attention is on a black squirrel that looks curiously down from a tree branch at the drama unfolding before him.

“Do you have any contact information for her? Know her next of kin?” Jake signs as Snell flips his notebook to an empty page.

I haven’t used the phone number I have for Gwen in almost two years. After my accident she reached out to me, came by the hospital and to the house to visit but I refused to talk to her. To anyone. “Her husband’s name is Marty and she has a daughter named Lane. She grew up here.” I pull out my phone and find Gwen’s number. Snell adds it to his growing list of notes.

Jake has me take him, step by step, through my morning right up until Stitch discovered Gwen in the river. Beyond his shoulder I see Stitch wander toward my neighbor who is waiting next to a four-wheeler, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. He bends down to scratch Stitch’s ear. “Stitch, Ke mne!” I call. Ke mne is Czech for come and pronounced as khemn yea. Stitch leisurely trots back to my side. Stitch’s trainer, Vilem, who is originally from Prague, trained all of his police and rescue dogs using Czech commands, including Stitch and Jake’s K-9.

Jake shifts so that his face is once again in front of mine. “You going to be okay?” he asks. “Do you want me to call someone for you?”

That’s when I realize I’m late for my interview with Dr. Huntley. I’ve forgotten all about it.

“Oh, shit!” I say. I check my watch. It’s close to ten thirty. I’m already a half an hour late. By the time I get home, cleaned up and to the clinic I’ll be well over two hours late. I tell Jake about the interview and that I have to get home.

“Sorry,” he signs. “Officer Snell will get you home as soon as possible. You’ll have to come to the police station at some point and we’ll have you sit down with a certified interpreter to take your official statement. I’ll check in with you later.” Then he moves back up the bluff toward Gwen’s body.

I check my phone and find two texts from Dr. Huntley’s office manager. The first reading, Dr. Huntley is running behind schedule and will be about thirty minutes late for your interview.

For a moment I’m hopeful that I’ll still be able to get to the clinic in time to catch him but then I read the second message and my stomach sinks. Dr. Huntley has to leave for another appointment. He will contact you if he’d like to reschedule. Great. The professional equivalent of “don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

There’s a third text from David. It’s only one word but it speaks volumes.

Typical.

3

Jake orders me not to share any details about my discovery with anyone so I send a text to Dr. Huntley’s office manager, apologizing for my absence. I explain that I have a good reason for missing the interview and that I will tell her all about it later. My fingers itch to respond to David’s smart-ass text with something equally snarky, but my attorney, Amanda, has advised me to keep all my communications with David cordial so I shove my phone into my pocket before I change my mind.

Because I’m not Nora’s biological mother I have absolutely zero rights when it comes to custody or visitation. If and when I get to see Nora is completely in David’s hands.

I clearly remember the day, even though I was completely sloshed, that David finally had enough. He had come home from his shift at the hospital and found me sitting on the floor of our bedroom with a bottle of Smirnoff and my coffee mug with “Cute enough to stop your heart and skilled enough to restart it” written across the side. A Valentine’s Day gift from David. I couldn’t be that bad off if I was still using a glass. At least I wasn’t chugging directly from the bottle, never mind that I was holed up in my bedroom with the shades drawn, lights off, drinking vodka and watching closed captioned episodes of Judge Judy at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

Of course I didn’t hear David come into the room, but once he turned on the light and I saw the look on his face I knew things were bad. “You forgot to pick up Nora,” he said, pointing to his watch as I rolled the Smirnoff beneath the bed.

“Sorry,” was all I could offer. “I’ll go get her now.” I got unsteadily to my feet. My face felt numb and I almost didn’t care that I couldn’t actually hear what David was saying.

“No, Amelia, you won’t. You can’t get in a car and drive like this.” I couldn’t stand seeing the anger, the disappointment in his eyes, so I averted mine. David grabbed my chin. Not hard, but firmly, so that I couldn’t help but look at him. “You will never drive with Nora again. Do you understand?”

“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” I said, my chin still cupped in his hand. I remember actually being glad that his hand was there, I was having trouble keeping my head steady. I kept wanting to lie down, close my eyes.

“I can and I will,” David said through clenched teeth, making it difficult for me to read his lips. “I en an I ill,” it looked like he was saying, and for some reason this struck me as funny and I started to laugh.

“Dammit, Amelia!” David said, his fingers now digging into my cheeks so hard that tears sprang into my eyes. “You will not get into a car with my daughter. If you do, I’ll call the police, I swear, I will. Once you sober up, I want you out. Out of my house. Do you understand?” David’s face was pale and he was nearly vibrating with rage.

I wrenched away from his grasp, the half-filled mug still in my hands. “Now Nora’s your daughter? I knew you would do this,” I spat. “I knew you could never deal with me being deaf. I’m not your perfect little wife anymore so you’re going to just throw me away,” I slurred.

“I’m not doing this because you’re deaf, Amelia. I’m doing this because you are a fucking drunk.” This I understood. No need for my husband to repeat these words. I read his lips perfectly.

The mug was out of my hand before I even realized that I had thrown it. The mug struck the wall, exploding into shards just as Nora came into the room. Vodka sprayed in all directions. Nora’s mouth made a perfect O as she clamped her hands over her ears and then ran from the room. David gave me a look filled with pure hate and rushed after her.

“Trista wasn’t perfect, either, was she? You ran her off too!” I shouted. “No wonder she got as far away from you as possible.” I slammed the door, locked it, and with shaking hands I rooted around beneath the bed in search of the bottle of vodka. When my fingers found the cool smooth glass, I sat with my back against the wall, the carpet wet beneath me, and drank until the tremors slowly subsided.

Officer Snell tugs on my sleeve and points to an opening in the trail. The EMTs arrive in a six-wheeled contraption that’s a cross between an ATV and a short bed truck. It has a yellow stretcher strapped to the back and I realize that this is how they plan to transport the body out of here. It’s not enough that Gwen has been found murdered, nude and dumped like refuse into the river, now she has to be unceremoniously hauled out of here by a mud-splattered OHV—off-highway vehicle. I know my irritation is misplaced. This isn’t the first time that a body has been found in a rural, hard-to-get-to spot but usually it’s due to a hunting accident or a drowning or someone collapsing on the trail, not murder.

I decline the offer from an EMT to tend to my hands even though they are still oozing blood and sting. Officer Snell is deep in conversation with my new neighbor so I find a rock to sit on while Stitch explores the muddy banks. I take this opportunity to survey the man who moved into the cabin next to my home. The two-story luxury stone-and-log home with its wide windows and wraparound decking puts my ragtag cabin to shame. The previous owners lost the home to foreclosure and it sat empty for the last three years. My new neighbor bought the property at the beginning of summer and opened Five Mines Outfitters. Now my once quiet road has a regular flow of traffic. Even worse, my stretch of river and the trails that have been my safe haven have been invaded by strangers. To be fair, we’re not exactly next-door neighbors, either. The outfitters is settled nearly out of sight behind thick foliage atop a bluff and well above the river, safe from any flooding while my somewhat shabby A-frame sits dangerously close to the river’s edge and is one heavy rain away from being swept into Five Mines by floodwaters.

This is the closest I’ve actually come to meeting my neighbor. I’ve only seen him from a distance when he lugs canoes or kayaks down to the access ramp he installed on the property for his customers. Seeing him up close, I realize that he’s older than I thought. Midforties, I’d say. He is tall and very fit with jet-black hair, dark eyes and Asian features. As far as I can tell, he lives alone and runs the outfitters on his own.

“Officer...take...home...four-wheeler.” I’m able to fill in the gaps and figure out that Officer Snell is letting me know that I’m going home on one of the four-wheelers.

“What about my board?” I ask, knowing that to worry about my paddleboard is petty under the circumstances, but I’m convinced that this board saved my life on more than one occasion, whisking me away from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s I have stashed in the cabinet beneath my sink. I know I should just dump it out, along with the bottle of red wine I have hidden, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, when the need hits, I grab my board and Stitch and get the hell out of the house and paddle until I’m exhausted and the urge fades. At least for the time being.

“We can strap it on the back of one of the...” my neighbor says and then moves toward my board so that the rest of the sentence drops away when I can no longer see his lips. Expertly he lifts the board above his head in one smooth motion, turns back to face me, his mouth still moving. He has no idea I can’t hear him and I don’t have any desire to educate him, so I just nod. He retrieves a knot of bungee cords from a small storage box on the ATV and secures the board lengthwise so that half of it projects off the back.

Snell is talking to an officer, who if possible, is younger than he is. From the look on the boy’s face he is disappointed about having to leave what is likely the most exciting crime scene he’ll ever encounter in his career in law enforcement so that he can accompany us home. I feel a little sorry for him but it dawns on me that if I don’t act fast I’m going to end up sitting behind my neighbor or the officer with my arms wrapped around their midsection as they drive me home. No way. I get onto the four-wheeler with my board strapped to it, staking my claim, and signal to Stitch to hop up behind me. I pretend not to notice Okada’s slightly irritated expression as he climbs on behind the young officer.

It’s about a forty-minute trek back to my house by four-wheeler and not that much faster on foot. I would have just walked home if I didn’t have my board with me. The maze of trails, which are maintained by the DNR, have mine-era names that echo back to Mathias’s mining history: Prospector Ridge, Galena Gulch and Knife Claim Hollow. We take Dry Bone Loop, a trail that winds like a corkscrew up one side of the bluff and then down the other. A delicate shower of gold and crimson leaves wafts down, littering the trail and catching in my hair. Stitch, from his spot behind me on the ATV, cranes his neck, jaws playfully snapping as he tries to snag each leaf that floats near. After about ten minutes of sitting patiently behind me as I navigate the rocky terrain, Stitch leaps from his seat and decides to run on ahead of us, pausing every few minutes to let us catch up.

I’m eager to get home to try and contact Dr. Huntley directly. I’m hoping he’ll be able to reschedule our interview for this afternoon or at least some time this week. I’m sure David is fuming self-righteously and will try to find a way to use my absence against me. If finding a body in the river isn’t a valid enough reason to miss my appointment, I don’t know what is. The thing is, I’m not allowed to tell Dr. Huntley just why I stood him up.

Up ahead of us Stitch has wandered off the trail and is pawing tentatively at something in a twist of barberry dripping with red berries. My heart rate quickens and I bring the ATV to a stop. Stitch continues to bat at whatever has captured his attention, and I jump when I feel a brush at my elbow. The officer and my neighbor have parked their ATV behind mine and have come to my side, curiously watching Stitch. For a beat I’m afraid that Stitch has discovered another body and I find myself frozen in place. My eyes lock with the officer’s and I know the same thought is skittering across his brain.

I slide from my seat and we all start to walk toward Stitch. Startled by the sudden movement, Stitch darts away from us, a colorful object dangling from his muzzle. Stitch thinks we’re playing a game with him. He allows us to get just a few steps from him and then he dashes away, then stops short to see if we’re still in pursuit.

“Stitch, ruce vzuru!” Stand still, I call, and instantly Stitch freezes and rolls his eyes toward me to make sure I’m serious. I look at him sternly and signal for him to come, and he slinks to my side. I show him my closed fist and open it, his cue to drop whatever is in his mouth. He grudgingly complies.

The three of us gather in a tight circle and bend forward to get a closer look at the item dispatched at our feet. It’s a woman’s running shoe. Beneath the layers of dirt, the shoe is brightly colored with fuchsia and neon green stripes. An expensive brand that only the most serious of runners seem to own. The thought of Stitch playing keep away with something that Gwen may have been wearing makes my stomach roil. We stand upright, and the officer pulls a phone from his pocket.