The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

Doug Crandell Shanty Falls

from Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

The walk to the water was his usual routine, the waterfalls and the smooth limestone his sanctuary and confession. As the morning sun rose, no matter the season or weather, for the last six years David Holzer made the trek. It started with his usual 4 a.m. waking up, two cups of coffee, black and sweet, at the kitchen table, slugged back quickly, boots laced in the mudroom, and on to the porch for a perfunctory review of the skies, measuring which trees could be seen, poplars towering behind the barn, walnuts massive at the center of the yard, the fence line visible too if the morning didn’t offer a swell of fog. It wasn’t his farm, only the house, bought outright after an early retirement at fifty-five. It’d been a house he’d lived in as a kid, but only briefly; his parents had moved all over the county, sharecropping and barely making ends meet. The landlord at the time was a man and his two college-aged sons, who laughed when David and his parents had to pack up and move during a sunny fall afternoon. One of the sons took a check from David’s dad and pretended to be dribbling it like a basketball. “This thing’s bouncing just like the last two.” More laughter, although the father tried to act as if the boys should hush. David bought the house out of spite, to prove to himself that he was safe, that money was no longer an issue. His parents died in nursing homes with debt, and at night, lying in bed, he could admit in the dark that he’d not let go of the shame, that he took too much pleasure in knowing the landlord had died early from a heart attack and that both sons were rich but stupid, alone and addicted to painkillers, their reputations, if not their actual lives, besmirched. On his morning walks, David said a kind of prayer, to nature mostly, that he be forgiven his own reckless stupidity.

David took a step off the porch and into the cool morning, dew instantly wetting the cuffs of his pants. No one ever thought he was past sixty, and on the morning walks he could privately accept why that was the case. He took long strides and didn’t have to think about breathing. He ate well, always had, never thinking about anything sweeter than the two teaspoons in his coffee each morning. Food bored him, or at least his interest in it was mainly connected to energy, proper health, daily seeing the pyramid in his mind from an elementary-school health textbook. He could do that still, see something on a page and recall it easily. He stepped over the hard maple trunk that had fallen during a storm last fall, then cut across the flat field where soybean stubble spread out like a million matchsticks over the two hundred acres that edged up to the forest. They’d be in the fields soon, within weeks. The river valley started here, the dark loam slipping toward the lowlands, where some of the richest soil had settled, coal black, and so fragrant David inhaled a few quick sniffs and smiled.

His running watch told him he was making better than usual time. Before long, even though he had to listen closely, the sounds of the falls grew closer with each step. The sun was still not up, but the silver and yellow lip of the bowl that surrounded the treetops seemed to pulse as it spread. David told people he could smell rocks, that Indiana limestone had a specific scent, like ice, or sand, which he also claimed had their own smells. His close friends, Simon and his ex-wife Cheryl and his daughter, shook their heads and laughed at David. He began a trot now, the hiking boots holding the soft spring mud, making them heavier.

He jogged through a bend and past a rounded stack of cobbled rock that’d been a foundation to an old milk house, then picked up the pace until he was on a path worn by people trying to explore the little caves tucked above on the brittle cliffs that had once been places of shelter for the Miami and Potawatomi tribes. He slowed his pace to a brisk walk and then stopped, listened for the waterfalls of Shanty. David pushed a button on his watch, and the milliseconds ceased their frantic tallying. He drank from a water bottle made of recycled aluminum. It had a filter so tap water could be used, but David filled the bottle from the already purified water he kept stacked high in the pantry. Through a tangle of red-budded branches he could see the water cascading off the flat layers of rock, and always he recalled the first time he’d seen it as a kid, exploring on his own and finding Shanty Falls before he knew its name and believing he’d made a mammoth discovery.

David replaced the water bottle into its leather holster and took a few more steps, looking up each time to fully take in the area. He stopped abruptly before his mind could decipher the paleness lying at the edge of the rippling waters. David looked behind him. He crouched, stood, and crouched again, this time squinting. The body was naked except for a pair of gym shorts. It was stocky. He called out something he thought sounded like a question but was not words. He stepped closer and looked behind him again, over his shoulder and up toward the caves in the cliffs, now mostly out of sight except for one of the larger ones, the opening crooked and toothy, a yawning expanse of black. David pulled his phone from the Patagonia khakis, glancing all around, then back at the screen. The signal near the falls was almost always nonexistent, sporadic at best. The 911 digits remained on the screen above the 00:00 that would not advance by even one second. David stepped forward, then back, but the service didn’t change. He shoved the phone back into his pants pocket. He walked backward for a few steps, then sideways, before moving closer, stopping about forty feet from where the body lay. He thought he smelled blood, maybe a whiff of whiskey. It occurred to him to quickly take a few photos. The camera on the phone ticked them off wildly. He hit Record and narrated what he’d found, the time, what he was about to do. “I’m approaching to assist if necessary. No cellular service. Will head back toward house to get a signal and phone the authorities.”

He took a deep breath and swallowed. “I’m coming to you,” he said, and the sound of his voice was like a stone dropping into the water, hollow and rippling out through the bare trees. “I’m here to help,” he added, once again checking his surroundings, startling just a bit when a squirrel leapt from limb to limb, the crack and thump as though someone were jumping on him. His heartbeat settled and he pushed on, not unafraid. At the edge of the water, he bent down and made sure his feet were planted firmly so he could duck-walk the rest of the way. This close he could see the chest rising and falling, slowly, with the kind of effort infants use in fevers. He saw too now that the pale body was female, with small swells around deep pink nipples. She moaned and turned her head, and he saw her face was bruised, a gash over her right eye, bleeding, the streaks of red giving way to a watery rose across her cheeks. David recognized the facial features. She was a young woman with Down syndrome, and he rushed to her, skidded across the slick rocks and knelt beside the girl, and kept calling her honey and stroking her short blond hair with one hand as he tried the phone again with the other.

Her top lip was busted so severely the inside was nearly inverted, swollen and twisted, looking like a wad of bubble gum was stuck to her teeth. David placed his hand under her head and turned her face toward him. “Shhh,” he said. Her head lolled away from him, and for a brief shock of a second, David feared her head would slip from his grasp and smack onto the limestone. The water slightly gurgling around them was pinkish, and colder now. He gently placed her head back onto the rocks; David paused only briefly before deciding on carrying her out of the falls and away from the water. He put an arm under her short legs and the other behind her neck and carefully rose, as if the earth might open up below them. David took measured, planned steps forward, inspecting the footholds so that each one was firm. The task seemed to help him gather his air, and as he placed the girl down, he made sure to set her in place like a doll, holding her torso to him so he could use one hand to shuck off his jacket. He wrapped it around her, eased her back, and folded her arms over, pulling the zipper up to her chin, which was blue-green, like turquoise, with another gash right in the center, red flesh filleted and parted.

David tried the phone again, but the bars were not there. He looked around and brushed his hair back, scooted up next to the girl. He placed two fingers at her pale throat; the heartbeat was faint. She rolled her head toward his touch and said, “Daddy.” The word brought the pang of anguish it does for all true fathers; he heard in it his own daughter’s voice as the girl sputtered with a cough and said again, “Daddy,” this time with a weak plea.

“It’s okay,” he told her, taking off his denim shirt and placing it over the jacket. “Honey, I don’t have any cell service out here.” His words seemed to calm her and she stopped moving her head from side to side. “I live a couple of miles away. I can run back and call 911 and I’ll run as fast as I can back here.” The girl was still, her breathing slow and barely perceptible. David stood up, then knelt again and leaned over her and whispered in her ear. “Hang on, honey. I promise I’ll be back.” He gently touched her cheek and turned around and started to run.

In just a white undershirt, David sprinted back along the worn path, calculating the time it would take. He could walk the distance in just over twenty minutes; sprinting, he might shave off a quarter of the time, plus a few more minutes because he’d be able to get a signal once into one of the open fields. He rounded the bend where the rock foundation jutted out, then up along the sagging fence line. Blackbirds floated from the trees and mourning doves exploded out of the taupe fescue in the ditch. His lungs burned, and his eyes watered from the wind in his face. David thought then of Samantha, living in Chicago, a pediatric nurse, her mother a nurse too, the two of them living their lives as if men only weakened them, which was probably true. Samantha had told him over and over that taking a yearly CPR and first-aid course was just as important as his insistence on recycling, but during her last visit he’d waved her off again, saying he’d get around to it. He could see Sam at the girl’s age, an awkward teenager, and the image of the little girl alone near Shanty Falls gave him more energy, and he pumped his arms and pushed the balls of his feet with force into the ground while his thighs ached and the image of the barns and the side of his house came into view in the distance. He stopped abruptly and pulled out his phone. The operator was clear and calm, the voice forgiving and hopeful. David swallowed and caught his breath. In one clean and concise rush he said, “I’m David Holzer. I live at 220 Pike Road, close to Shanty Falls. On my morning walk I found a girl. She’s hurt badly. Please send an ambulance right away.” The operator repeated the information and David confirmed it. “Hurry,” he said, “she’s lost a lot of blood.” He put the phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath.

It occurred to him he could get back to the girl more quickly.

He sprinted toward the barn the Price brothers owned. They kept three ATVs inside, under tarps, for some reason only using them in the fall. He yanked off the dark green canvas and saw the keyholes empty. He searched the walls and found three sets of keys on an old hay hook. He put all three in the ATV ignitions. It’d been years since he’d ridden a motorcycle in college, but after a couple of false starts he found reverse with his foot, and was out of the barn and hitting second gear. At the edge of the woods he used his cell to call 911 again. “Tell the paramedics and police there are two ATVs with keys in them in the barn.” The operator told him they’d sent along a sheriff’s SUV.

David zipped around the back of the farm and down the long stretch before the curvy footpath along the river bottom and caves. At the stone foundation, he stood slightly and kept driving, looking ahead, the smell of gas and oil somehow calming. His arms were cold and he said a short prayer in his head, asking that the girl be spared shock. He slowed down when he saw some movement, and something hard and cold froze in the center of his chest. As he shifted down to first gear, the ATV jerked and threw him forward a little, the wind now stronger and biting. He stopped completely and had to squint to make out a figure in the distance, shrouded some by low-lying bushes and several massive tree trunks that had fallen. He shut off the motor but kept his eyes on the person moving slowly in circles. “You there,” yelled David, and he slid his phone from his pocket and damned himself for not bringing along the rifle he used to scare off foxes from his set of four hens. The figure kept pacing in circles. The motor on the ATV ticked as it cooled, like an old clock. In the far distance, the sirens wailed and receded, came back a little louder each time. David thought about just sitting it out, but he’d told the girl, no, promised her he’d be back. He climbed off the ATV and stood next to it. The voice of the girl, and Samantha’s too, came rushing back into his mind. He heard them both calling him Daddy. David stepped forward and kept going, his stride long and heels thudding in the earth. “Hey, you there,” he said, and David pointed in the person’s direction. “Stay where you are,” he commanded. David sniffed in deeply as the person finally heard him and stiffened, but only momentarily, before waving his arms and starting to jog in David’s direction. “I said stay where you are!” David stopped too. At this distance, in the path, he could see the person was a young guy, barefoot but holding a pair of shoes like they might be precious or explosive. David stepped to the side of the path and could make out the girl’s pale skin, about forty feet behind the guy. In David’s absence she’d moved, still on her back, but legs positioned now as if preparing to do sit-ups, her feet planted on the cold ground, her knees shining like white saucers. “You know her?” asked David. The guy stood there like a surprised deer. “Tell me, son,” said David, as he took steps forward. “You hear the sirens as well as I do. Better let me know what’s happened here.” The guy held on to the shoes, dangling at his side. David was within ten feet now, and could see the kid was familiar; he’d seen the face, the wide brown eyes and full mouth; he’d seen that face from the shoulders up before, but he couldn’t place it. David stopped again. The sirens seemed to fade some now. “What’s happened?” asked David.

The kid took a step forward, but David put out his hand. “Stay put.”

The kid’s mouth opened and he seemed as though the air had been knocked out of him. Finally he said, “I didn’t mean to.” He looked over his shoulder at the girl, who moaned.

David yelled, “I’m back, honey, just like I said. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“She said she couldn’t wait to tell everyone we were dating.” The kid looked at the shoes, which David could see were expensive.

“Did you hurt that girl?” asked David, and he recognized in himself a palpable hatred for the kid, his spoiled face and styled haircut. He wore a wristwatch that gleamed even in the dull light of the gloomy forest. The thought surged in David, but the kid suddenly wore the expression of a child ashamed of its behavior. David took two more steps forward. The sirens looped back around and steadily grew closer, like a dream at daybreak, fading and at the same time rushing to be acknowledged.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” said the kid. He kept his shoes at his side, held away from his hip as if they were baby shoes about to be dipped into a bronze bath for keepsakes.

“But you did hurt her, son,” said David. The morning turned sunny as a large cloud eased by, and the wind dropped back, the trees stilling and the only sound the falls, water cooing and the bare canopy warming. David walked the last few steps to the boy. “Have you seen what you’ve done to her?” he asked.

The kid started to sob, and for a moment it seemed he might pass out, but instead he collapsed into David’s arms. From behind, David could hear voices, and the sound of an ATV motor immediately cut off. David held on to the kid and yelled over his shoulder, “She’s just up ahead, to your right. Hurry, please hurry.” A rush of bodies gave off the scent of soap and deodorant, the start of a shift. David allowed the kid to go limp in his arms. Overhead, the thwack, thwack of helicopter blades thumped like woofers in a jacked-up trunk of an annoying Monte Carlo. David pushed the kid’s head to rest on his right shoulder, so he could see what they were doing with the girl. David caught the bright green flash of moss, the wet silver dullness of the limestone, and against those pulsing colors the pale legs of the girl, her feet bouncing each time they applied pressure to her chest. The helicopter hovered just over the treetops, the bare branches swaying, before it eased backward and rose, circled back to what David assumed would be his garden area, flat and wide open. The treetops now quietly undulated and lessened their movements. David noticed the kid’s sandy-brown hair fluttered back into place, his scalp covered again. The paramedics barked instructions, sounding angry at their work, at what had been presented them. The kid sobbed into David’s shoulder. Dogs brayed behind them, their barks hyper and insistent. David pushed the kid’s head up, and it wobbled not unlike the girl’s earlier. “You need to get yourself together, son.”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. The kid stepped back and let out a labored exhale. He still held the shoes in his right hand, his knuckles pink. “I didn’t mean it.”

Over his right shoulder David sensed three or four deputies. He heard the words “Back up” or “Step aside.” He couldn’t say for certain what they were instructing. The kid’s eyes shifted into an awareness then, as David raised his hands and nodded for the kid to do the same. David thought of the pictures from his mother’s Bible, the color ones where Jesus was arrested, the ones where his arms and hands were above him, palms nailed to an old wooden cross. “You best put those shoes down,” said David, but the kid hesitated, glanced at them. “I don’t want to get them dirty,” he said as he let them slip from his hand. They landed on a mound of green moss. The kid raised his hands as David had, held them the same way.

Paramedics whisked the girl by them on a stretcher, her mouth covered in an inhalation bag, as the sheriff’s deputies instructed through bullhorns for David and the kid to keep their hands up, to get to their knees, slowly. They both went down as if entering cold water, and as the kid’s knees hit the ground, his exhaled breath was laced with the acrid stink of thrown-up liquor, so strong it made David hold his own breath. They were instructed to put their hands behind their heads. As someone gripped David’s wrist and applied cuffs, he said out of the side of his mouth, “I’m the 911 caller.” He watched as the kid was handcuffed and lifted from the kneeling position. They walked toward the black SUV, escorted by the deputies. One of the ATVs sat nearby. Two news vans were stuck in the wet muck of the field up toward the old fence line. They were put in separate cruisers. Now that David could see the deputy, he recognized her from the Chamber events. “Mr. Holzer,” she said. He nodded, suddenly aware how tight his muscles were, the wracking pain in his head. “I’ve got to read you your rights,” she added. The idea was nearly comical to David because of how surprised he was to hear these words, words he’d only heard in movies. The deputy smiled. “Only protocol, of course,” she said. David listened as she began, and he looked out the window and into the other cruiser, where the kid sat with his arms behind him, using his head to motion toward David.

The sheriff’s office smelled of burned microwave popcorn. David had always become mildly queasy from the smell, even when his mother had made it on the stove, the pulsating red coil like a planet from his science book. The stink of it reminded him of the kid’s vomit breath. David sat back in the office chair; they’d put him in a conference room, offered him coffee and even snacks. He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. The female deputy appeared, balancing two cups of steaming coffee, not the Styrofoam kind from a drip pot but two large recycled containers with the stamp of the eco-green brewer that was constantly busy, opening two new sites near Midland University and putting the chain stores nearly out of business. “You like it black, double sugar?” she asked as she handed David the fibered cup, flecks of maroon in the cardboard ring meant to keep fingers from burning.

David nodded and rose, took the coffee carefully, as if it might detonate. “Thank you,” he said, sitting back down. The deputy’s name was Shelby, he remembered now, about four or five years younger than Samantha; she’d had a wicked jumper, if he recalled correctly.

Shelby sat down at the table, blowing over her coffee, and though he couldn’t say why, it reminded David of how Samantha’s mother had soothed her, soft and with determination, a kind of warriorlike reverence for lost sleep. “I suppose,” she said, taking her cell phone from a holster and placing it on the desktop, “you’ve already realized he’s saying he found her with your jacket on. That he’s also saying that he was the one to find her, and that you showed up later, returning to the scene of the crime?” Shelby had shot three free throws in the 2004 regional playoffs, a technical foul, and she’d won the game, while Samantha had cheered the team on.

“And I’m assuming, Deputy, the physical evidence proves otherwise?” asked David as he swallowed a hot gulp of coffee he wished he’d cooled.

Shelby nodded, licked her lips, and tried to valiantly smile. “The girl is in ICU, a coma. Her vitals are all over the place. The blows to her head were enough to incite extreme swelling.” Shelby turned down the mic at her shoulder when it squawked.

David nodded, held back the guttural instinct to stand and yell in opposition. “He as much as admitted to it before you guys got there. He said she was going to tell everyone they were dating.” David looked as intensely as he could at the deputy. “The kid tried to kill her.”

Shelby grimaced and placed her tall steaming cup of coffee onto the desk. “Maybe you recognized him. He’s the point guard for Midland U.,” she said, looking over her shoulder as sliding glass doors parted, then several drunk college students brayed and laughed as they were ushered into the processing areas.

“Stopped watching after Sam graduated,” said David, as he too let his eyes follow the drunken college kids escorted to the mug-shot area. The smell of burned popcorn receded, making it that much worse, faint and somehow slightly damp. David knew now why he’d recognized the kid, at least from the shoulders up, his player pic plastered everywhere on the state and local news feeds, a basketball star.

“My dad was the same way, Mr. Holzer,” said Shelby. “He watched just so we’d have something to talk about on weekends.” She leaned back in the office chair and put her arms behind her head; David reminded himself not to glance at her chest. She had the lean, muscular look of a young woman who liked to participate in Saturday biathlons. Shelby said, “His folks are rooted deeply. They give in the upper six figures to MU, they own three businesses in Rochester, plus the law offices, and there’s a wing of the new hospital about to be named after them. Both are MBAs. And the father still practices law.”

“Well, I’m a firm believer in our justice system to get things right about half the time,” said David. “Of course, not in these cases.” He drank his coffee in three deep gulps, his tongue burning, back of the throat too. He placed the cup on the desktop, sat back some, and posed a question. “Tell me, what’s wrong with these kinds of kids?” He gestured with his head to some vague area in the middle of the room. “He was just as concerned about getting his goddamn expensive shoes dirty as he was about that poor little girl.” David stood up and realized he was angrier than he’d thought; mostly, sitting there in the sheriff’s station, he’d felt sad, worried, sick to his stomach, but now he was seething, because it seemed it wasn’t a new story, every year some spoiled brat was profiled during the news, affluent, sports-minded, indulgent parents, and the judge complicit, people actually talking about how the offender’s life shouldn’t be ruined because of one mistake. They specifically said these words, and did so without a trace of self-doubt, as if they too could bash a little girl’s face in, Down syndrome or not. “What am I not getting?” he asked with a smirk.

Shelby sat up straighter. “In this work,” she said, pointing in the same general vicinity David had earlier, “you have to find a balance.” She stood up now too. “I’m not the sole voice on callousness, Mr. Holzer, or how it comes about, why it seems to be growing.” Shelby softened. “You likely saved her. And that’s what I think about, I mean, when I’m doubting, after some awful crassness of youth, the middle-aged road rage, or the craven geriatrics,” which she chuckled at, and seemed disappointed and slightly embarrassed that David hadn’t responded with much more than a quick grin.

“You’ll keep me posted, then?” asked David as he stepped back from the table, his hand on the doorknob.

“Well, since you’re the only witness and the kid tried to implicate you, Mr. Holzer, I think you’ll be seeing me quite a bit.” She put out her hand and David shook it, warm and dry. He turned to leave, walked through a maze of cubicles, then past the interview rooms with glass windows to the ceiling and out a set of doors that were operated by a deputy who sat perched up in an elevated seating area.

Once David was outside, he stood and looked around from the top of the steps. Cars and news vans lined both sides of the street, two from Indianapolis and at least one he could tell was from Chicago. Crime had become an artsy endeavor now, the quirkier the better, serial stories on public radio shows, through podcasts popping up like fast-food franchises, and streaming series offering just as many takes, crime as sponsored by meal-delivery services, as biopsychosocial investigations. They liked crimes where someone was innocent, or just barely, the episodes building week by week on some new voice from the past, damning or confirming, but never enough to stop listeners and viewers from tuning in before the similarly inconclusive reveal. Crime was the new museum opening, the debut novel, the album everyone was talking about who had time to be purveyors of art in the episodic. David was cold in the cooler afternoon winds; March like a lion and all that. He took a few steps down the stairs and was nearly bowled over as reporters chased a haggard couple up the steps toward the sheriff’s offices. The woman’s face was red and swollen and the man kept his arm around her and sneered as he tried to usher his wife and himself closer to the entrance. Several deputies appeared and ordered the reporters back to the sidewalk. Shelby was taking the wife by the arm and helping her through the doors. David didn’t know why he chose to wave at Shelby, but she had enough sense to only nod. She and the couple disappeared into the building. The kid and his goddamn stupid shoes, his haircut, and the way he cried near the waterfalls, as if he were trying out for a theater production, it all ran through David’s mind as he realized he had no vehicle.

By nightfall the local affiliates all had slightly different still shots of Shanty Falls, silver water pouring over the serene white limestone, some of the poplar limbs within the frame, the soft green peat bulging up at the edge of the cold eddies. Names had been withheld, but then the girl’s parents were in a Fort Wayne studio, dark bags under their eyes and faces twisted into a stolid anguish. David sipped tea and sat on the sofa with Bella, a border collie too old anymore to take on regular walks. The phone rang on the kitchen wall. He stood and Bella pretended she’d follow, but the fourteen years in her hips brought her back down with a sigh.

“Yes,” David said into the phone.

“Dad,” said Samantha. “Are you okay?” He could tell he was on speakerphone, that Linda was listening too.

“Fine, fine,” he said, as the pale thighs and mangled face of the girl flashed into his head.

“Mom’s listening.”

“Hello, Linda,” David said as he moved into the doorway so he could see Bella asleep on the couch.

“It’s awful,” said the two women, as if singing in rounds.

“Yes,” said David, and he heard his daughter and ex-wife conferring in muted tones.

“Would you like us to come there? We could get flights and stay for a while.” David thought he’d heard Sam shush her mother.

“No, I’m quite fine,” said David. “It’s a simple case, really. I suppose as time goes on I’ll be asked to testify.” He liked how that sounded, that he was doing the right thing, even waiting to do it, and these two women had seen him do otherwise far too often.

“We love you,” said Sam, and her mother said it too. They sounded like they were tipsy on the wine they both loved so much.

“Same here,” said David, and after a few more questions he hung up and returned to Bella, who was twitching in her sleep, running in her dreams, her paws moving like she was pedaling a bike.

David sat and watched the girl’s parents crucified on television. They were putting their faces on a story that would last no longer than a twelve-hour cycle, rutted out by celebrity gossip and political polarization. He pointed the remote at the television and the room darkened. He put his arms under Bella’s chest and belly and lifted her, carried her upstairs to her bed near his. In the dark of his bedroom, after he’d placed Bella into her bed, he thought of the kid, and how if he was given the chance, he’d punch him so hard the kid’s fancy bangs would hang under his left ear.

Shelby knocked on the door, and Bella, up early for her, barked and growled, all the while her tail wagging, her tongue smiling as if she’d never had any company. David patted her head in his robe and opened the door.

“Mr. Holzer,” said Shelby, holding two cups of coffee from the college campus store, Mean Bean. David held the door open as Shelby walked inside the mudroom and into the kitchen, where Bella was trying to show her old tricks, slow, but with real earnestness, black eyes flashing with the craven desire for attention.

Shelby smiled down at the dog. David shuffled to the table and slipped into one of the chairs, and Shelby did the same. “Wanted you to know,” said Shelby, but she paused, then pushed a coffee toward David. “The kid’s parents have gotten one of their high-profile friends to represent him. The district attorney says they’re already concocting a defense that paints the girl as promiscuous, willing to do anything to be popular.”

David took the top off the coffee and blew across the black surface. He sipped from the lip, then took another long gulp. He put the coffee in front of him as Bella whined until Shelby patted her head, then the dog sat, went fully down, and curled up next to Shelby’s feet. “If I am recalling my law correctly,” said David, “a young woman can’t be beaten nearly to death even if she did want a homecoming date.” David shook his head. “That kid will get what’s coming to him.”

Shelby raised her eyebrows, sipped from her cup. “I don’t think it’s best for the only witness to be making veiled threats, Mr. Holzer.”

“All I’m saying is, if that kid walks away from this like the one in Milwaukee did, someone will take things into their own hands.”

Shelby sat up straighter, cleared her throat. “So, what are you doing for your walk these days? Shanty will be closed for another few weeks until the scene is fully processed.” David didn’t respond; he knew his face was contorted, could feel the crease between his eyes ridged and tight. Shelby looked around the kitchen. “Just for inventory’s sake, permit verification and all, you have any firearms, Mr. Holzer?”

David laughed, a quick burst of absurdity, followed by a deep inhale. “I don’t like guns,” he said. “Sam and her mother work in emergency care, remember.” He paused and fiddled with the bottom of the coffee cup, picking at the peeling paper. “Seeing people’s heads half gone kind of turns you off to the Second Amendment, Deputy.” Shelby nodded, and started to stand up. David said, “Besides, I tend to think of retribution as something of an art form, you know, where creativity meets hatred.”

Shelby stood by the table. She gave David a soft, determined smile. “There’s an interesting legal interpretation of a person alluding to certain acts,” said Shelby. “It’s all about tone.” She picked up her coffee and walked to the door while David remained seated. “Police officers in big cities even get training in narrative, so they can recognize irony and sarcasm, a simile and metaphor.” She stood motionless as she turned the doorknob slowly. “It’s where pragmatism meets incarceration.” At the sound of the door clicking shut, Bella woke and looked at David and at the door, as if something should be done.

Days passed, and the television only spouted quick updates about the girl, the kid, whose name David refused to commit to memory. The two had met at a rally, the girl still in high school, a huge fan of both Midland U. and the star point guard. At some point the kid and the girl ended up in his Range Rover, with whiskey and wine. David had to get out of the house or risk obsessing. He clicked a leash on Bella, deciding a short walk wouldn’t hurt her fourteen-year-old bones. Out the back door and up against the sagging fence line, saplings struggling in the row, contorting their growth toward the sun and sky. David tried the syncopated breathing of his time meditating. Bella sniffed and peed, even picked up the pace. Before long they’d made it to the edge of Shanty Falls, at least as far as the yellow tape would allow. Bella lapped water from a silver rivulet, the green moss around the edges like outdoor carpet. She plopped down and panted with a gummy, grizzled smile. David surveyed the entire area, even looking up above, where the branches held fat red buds, some green shoots as bright as neon. The image of his parents evicted from the house he now lived in — ​toting just a few boxes and some clothes on hangers — ​reeled in his head. The girl had been lifelined to a hospital in Cleveland, and both Sam and her mother had said over the phone the trauma care provided there was superior, a strange word, but their vernacular had long ago taken on the spirit of recovery and accreditation. David stared at the spot he thought he’d found her, but the area was different now, the rocks somehow rearranged, the water itself falling more slowly, the trickles at the limestone rim apparently gone. He sat down next to Bella and stroked her head, and her eyes closed, opened, and went completely shut as she let out a deep sigh. David sat at the border of the waters and thought about what he might be able to do, as blackbirds cawed overhead and the forest stilled between surfs of breeze.

Shelby stopped by twice a week, and David welcomed her inside, and their conversation inevitably turned toward the kid, the legal wrangling, the certainty of David’s deposition. His jacket, the one he’d wrapped the girl in, had become part of the official evidence. The girl’s brain swelling had not changed, her condition remained critical after nearly six weeks. Sam and her mother told David on the evening phone calls that she’d likely have long-term impacts on her activities of daily living.

At the kitchen table, David scrolled news headlines on a tablet. The kid’s face flashed onto the screen. He’d been expecting the story so much that now, reading it, he could almost guess how it would go. The header was blocked and highlighted with a large question mark, asking readers to consider whether one mistake should doom the kid to losing the basketball scholarship, ruin his future. Stats — ​a near-perfect GPA and field goal and free-throw percentages — ​lined the edge of the text. The kid’s attorney described the crime as an incident, one where two young people had each made ill-advised choices, ones that shouldn’t permanently define them. David sat up in the chair and scrolled to the comments section below. There were hundreds of anonymous members fighting about who was to blame. One caught David’s eye because Sam had once told him using all caps was like screaming. Pro Arts@​StarH2H: GIVE ME A BREAK! THE ASSHOLE NEARLY BEAT HER TO DEATH!!!!

Gunslinger@​2ndAmend: CALM DOWN bleedy♥ AND TRY TO SEE IT FROM HIS SIDE OF THINGS! WE DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE DID! THESE KIDS SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MAINSTREAMED! MORE LIBTARD SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENS!!!

Witnessing all the thumbs-up emoticons under the comment, David squeezed the edges of the tablet hard enough that the screen ebbed blue-green, like a microexplosion of plasma under the glass. He stood up and looked down at Bella, turned and started to call Sam, paused and thought briefly of phoning Shelby, even going for a run, but instead he sat back down and found the kid’s address, synced it to his phone, searched online until he found three numbers, one for the kid’s dad’s law office, another connected to the address, and one more that seemed to be a cell-phone number. He put the tablet down gently and went upstairs.

Standing inside the closet, he chose a blue shirt, a dark brown jacket, and matching slacks, pulled on loafers he rarely wore anymore. In front of the mirror, he inspected the look. Did it represent a dependable person? Did he look like all he wanted to provide was a warning? Did the clothes communicate understanding? Some mercy? It had to be convincing.

He’d had the house renovated but kept a built-in chest of drawers his mother had loved while they’d rented the place. David pulled the top drawer open and reached under a stack of cardigans. His fingers felt the chain, then the plastic piece. In grade school he’d come home with the thing, a plastic butterfly shrunk down in Mrs. LaSalle’s toaster oven. David’s mother wore it for one whole year, then on special occasions, and finally left it in a box of things from the hospice. He wrapped the chain around the yellowed plastic, the purple monarch almost occluded, and shoved it into his pocket. He grabbed his keys and walked down the stairs to the back door, pausing to check on Bella. He left the house at 4:10 p.m.

David stood by his car at the curb. The house was massive, ornate, and easily worth five million. For a while he thought of just getting back in the car and driving home, but something about how serene and protected the black iron gates appeared, sturdy and attached to the white stacks of limestone columns that rose fifteen feet into the cool air, made David start toward them. A brief image of himself climbing the gates, clamoring and shaking the goddamn things until the hinges unmoored, washed over his vision. He’d been thinking on the drive about his folks, the last time he’d seen them happy. They’d cobbled together enough money for a trip out West to see Rushmore, the Grand Canyon, and Four Corners. They’d taken pictures and wanted him to see the thick stack of them over shit on a shingle and black, bitter coffee. Three years later both were gone, both from cancer.

He pressed the button on the intercom, and above his head an LCD panel blinked on. A brown face flashed into existence. “Yes?” the woman said, squinting into the camera. “Sí?” She held her hands as if halfway through a magic trick.

“I’d like to talk to the Schafers. I’ve got news.” The woman shrugged. “Tell them it’s David Holzer from Shanty Falls.” She nodded slightly, then turned and disappeared down a massive hallway, a glimmering chandelier partially visible and a white bichon frise standing motionless underneath it, the dog’s dark, narrow eyes buried in round coifed fur, staring up and into the camera. David blinked, thinking it might be a stuffed toy, but then it took two circus steps and barked, head thrown back, mouth moving but muted. The kid had grown up behind these gates, a maid, a chef, numerous vehicles, ATM cards, electronics, on-demand entertainment, indulgences, and then more. David watched a squirrel, which in his current state of mind also seemed privileged, a red and healthy tail mane, gourmet grains in shiny stainless-steel feeders, and its playground several acres of lush turf, with the perimeter buffeted by towering long-leaf pine, flat staircases of dogwood branches climbing into the ether, the boxwoods clipped into exact lines, long rectangles that bordered smooth slate stretching toward a circular fountain surrounded by squat Japanese maples.

David stared at the far-off slope of the property, and came to as the father stood within the span of camera. “Mr. Holzer, it’s a pleasure. Corina is on her way to greet and welcome you to our home.” The man smiled, his teeth as white as the dog, his eyes genuinely flickering with positivity; anything could be resolved, all it took was strategy and resources, solid logic, and, of course, friends, connections. “It’ll take her a bit to get to you; we’ve been spending most of our days in the guest residence.”

David said, “Thank you,” not certain if he was supposed to push an intercom button.

The kid’s dad kept talking. “It’s nearly time for dinner, or at least an early one, can I have something prepared for you?”

David shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary. I’ve only come with an update. I won’t take up much of your time.” David thought he heard the word nonsense as Corina opened the door and handed David a glass bottle of sparkling water and turned, motioned for him to follow her.

Inside the large home they trekked down pristine corridors, paintings on the walls as large as interstate signs and staff milling about. They passed a room set up with video equipment, sound systems, and lights and screens for professional headshots. David followed the woman through a massive kitchen onto a mason patio that dwarfed his own home. At the bottom of the mammoth steps sat a golf cart. Corina pointed to the passenger seat. “Sit.”

They drove over acres of grass, the guesthouse in the distance and cool air lapping at both of their bangs. Finally the father came into view, standing in a circular driveway, hands in his pockets and his face wearing that same calm, positive smile. Corina killed the motor and hurried off the cart and toward a back entrance.

“Mr. Holzer,” said the man. His handshake was all attorney, not lawyer, soft and assured, a winner all the time.

“Yes,” said David. “Your son,” he added, “is he home?”

“Why, yes,” said the man, his smile fading only a little. “But let’s go inside. Have a drink.”

“I’d rather not,” said David. “I’d like it if your son heard what I have to say.” The attorney raised his chin, examined David, considered his eyes. “I assure you I’m only here to provide some information,” said David.

The attorney glanced over his shoulder and back again at David. “Come on inside and I’ll have Teresa bring him down.” They walked into the house, the spring sun slipping behind the trees and the cold evening air descending.

Once in the living room, a flatscreen muted, a French movie playing with subtitles, David decided he’d come across the wrong way. “Actually, I’d love a white wine,” he said. The attorney smiled and motioned for Corina.

They talked about weather. “I suppose you’ll be glad when this is settled,” said the attorney. He responded to David’s silence. “I understand you’re an avid hiker, to Shanty Falls, that is.” Corina handed them both a white wine as the kid and his mother appeared at the edge of the room. The woman was small, even mousy, which surprised David.

“Yes?” she said as the kid looked at David as though he had no idea who he was. David knew what he was about to do wouldn’t last long — ​maybe an hour? Two, before they called and found out the truth?

David stood, handed the wine to the attorney. “I’m afraid,” said David, and he paused, looked to Corina standing in the foyer. “I’ve come to let you know that the girl is dead. She passed away a few hours ago.” The mother put her hand to her stomach and slowly turned and walked away. The attorney rose and went to his son. They stood side by side.

“What’s that now?” said the attorney. The kid looked at his father, both tall in the same way, hair alike too.

David put his hands in his pockets, felt the necklace he’d made his mother. “Yes, it’s terribly sad, but I thought you should know. My ex-wife and daughter work in the ICU. She went into cardiac arrest and couldn’t be revived.” The lies felt like punches, and David followed the one-two combination with some gut shots. “The deputy also called.” The attorney held his kid, the two tall handsome men stooped now, about to be knocked out. “They, of course, will now bring murder charges.” The kid sobbed while the dad looked around, as if searching for something to hold them both up.

David stood silent for a while, then said, “I really shouldn’t have come, but I thought you should know.” The phone rang, and kept ringing. Corina held her hand over her mouth. David turned and walked to the door. “I’ll drive myself back to my car,” he said. The kid sobbed and then started crying like a small child, demanding his father “get Mommy, get Mommy.”

On the golf cart, gliding over the soft hummocks, swallows dipped down and flashed up again. David hadn’t expected he’d feel anything but sadness after he’d offered up the con, but he also hadn’t anticipated the hatred he had for the kid, his parents. Near a gate that led around another, smaller fountain, he left the golf cart and walked toward his car at the curb. His phone vibrated in his pocket, clinking softly against the monarch under plastic. He pulled it out and answered. “Dad,” said Sam. “What are you doing?”

David couldn’t answer.