Thornbird

Chapter Twenty-Three Make Sure They Are Never Disturbed

twenty-three

Make Sure They Are Never Disturbed

Maggie is unusually silent. She’s the queen of small talk, the one who keeps idle chatter moving, but she hasn’t said a word since she met me at the end of Everett’s driveway in Dan’s pickup.

“Where are we going?” I ask for the fifth time, unable to ignore the nerves twisting in my stomach.

Why won’t she tell me, damn it?

She’s quiet the whole way into town. It’s eight in the evening, so most of the storefronts are dark.

Some stay open till nine, but most close earlier than that.

We find a parking space in front of the two-story building that houses her realty office.

I notice a black SUV parked in the spot ahead of us.

When I shift my gaze, my palms grow damp.

Two men in suits are waiting outside the office.

“What is this?” I hiss at my aunt.

“FBI.” Her voice is tight.

I feel sick now. “What? Why?”

“They requested a meeting with you.” Her eyes flash. “And by requested, they meant that if I didn’t allow you to speak to them, they would pull you out of school tomorrow morning and announce your identity to the whole town.”

Lovely. Starting off the relationship with threats. Always a good thing.

“Maggie Shipley?” the older man with the bald head says when we approach.

She nods.

He flips credentials at us, and I catch sight of block letters reading FBI. “I’m Special Agent Tom Kulpa. We spoke on the phone. This is Agent Luke Foster.”

My gaze flits to Foster, who is much younger than his black-suit-clad counterpart. He looks like he could be going to school with me at Crockett.

Maggie’s demeanor is icy as she unlocks the door. “Let’s go inside.”

My heart starts to pound. My aunt locks the office so nobody else can come in.

Moonlight drifts into the open storefront, casting everything in eerie shadow.

She leads us into her personal office, dragging in an extra chair because there are only two for visitors.

She and I settle on one side, while the two men sit on the other, the desk effectively creating a barrier.

I’ve never been more grateful for my aunt.

“Gabrielle,” Foster starts, and I jolt at the sound of my real name.

“Ryan,” I correct. “I’m Ryan now.”

“Yes. Sorry. Ryan.” He glances at Maggie for a split second, then continues. “We’re here because after your father committed suicide in his cell, we went through the items in his possession. He didn’t have much, but he did leave a note.”

I stiffen.

“Addressed to you.”

The older agent reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a manila folder, which he hands to me. I open it to find a plain envelope.

On the front, it simply says Gabby.

My first thought is that I want it as far away from me as possible. That’s the way I felt about the last letter he sent me, where he waxed poetic about our day in the meadow on my sixth birthday, as if he thought I’d feel nostalgic and love him again.

I shake my head. “I don’t want it. Just throw it out.”

Foster narrows his eyes. “No. We’d like for you to read it.”

“Foster,” Kulpa warns in a sharp tone. When he focuses on me, his voice is more appeasing, calmer.

“Ryan. You probably don’t remember me, but I worked your father’s case.

I was the first agent on site when it got called in.

We met briefly at your grandmother’s house in Pennsylvania. You showed me your dolls.”

I stare blankly at him. I don’t remember this man at all. His face is alien to me.

“I’ve been on this case for a long time, and I know a lot of people are still suffering because of it. Whatever we can do to ease their suffering…I’d like to think we’re all on the same page about it, aren’t we? Wanting to end everyone’s suffering?”

I swallow. “Can I read this in private?”

“We’d prefer if you open it here.”

Why? I want to scream. Why do they need to watch me read it?

“If you want one of us to read it out loud for you…?” Kulpa lets the question hang.

I shake my head, then turn over the envelope, which is unsealed.

The paper inside is a regular lined sheet, ripped from a notebook.

I can see the handwriting pressing through the page, even before I open it.

That’s one thing I remember from his other letters, something I never noticed all the years I lived with him—my father had a very heavy hand.

I unfold it and begin to read.

My little sparrow,

They will call me a coward for this, but of all the people left in this world, I think only you have the capacity to understand. It’s time for me to go. On my own terms. I won’t let anyone else decide when or how I leave this world. That choice, at least, will be mine.

I’ve trusted you with my sparrows. My pretty ones. You’ll watch over them, won’t you? Make sure they are never disturbed. Hold them in your heart as I’ve held you in mine. Keep them close. Keep them safe.

A few last thoughts on birds, just because they remind me of our good days.

Did you know the mourning dove can travel over five hundred miles in a day?

Or that if you hear a whippoorwill sing, it’s said to be an omen of impending death?

I don’t hear one now, but maybe soon. I feel like if death was a bird, it would be a nightjar.

So quiet and elusive, almost impossible to find when you’re looking.

Forgive me, if you can. For your mother, for what I couldn’t undo.

I love you, Gabby. Always.

Dad

The words blur together, and I don’t realize why until a teardrop hits the page. I quickly try to scrub it away, because I’m sure this paper is important evidence, but Agent Kulpa gives me a reassuring look.

“It’s already been processed and photocopied,” he says before gesturing to the letter. “Turn it over.”

I find three scrawled lines on the back.

Indigo bunting

Magnolia warbler

Purple finch

I frown, suddenly hearing my dad’s voice in my head. Indigo bunting. Blue as the sky on a summer’s day, and just as beautiful.

“Does that mean anything to you?” Foster presses.

“It’s a list of his favorite birds,” I mumble.

“And no, it probably doesn’t mean anything.

If you’ve read the other letters he sent me from prison, then you know he’s always mentioning birds in some context.

He loved them.” I shove the letter into the envelope and push it onto Maggie’s desk. “Can I go now?”

Foster stares at me as if I’ve asked for a ride to Saturn. “No, you cannot. We’re doing you a courtesy right now by keeping this off the books, but if you don’t answer our questions, we’re going to have to bring you in.”

“Excuse me?” Maggie says sharply. “My niece is under no obligation to speak to you. This isn’t an interrogation.”

“Not yet,” he says, and it’s so ominous it makes my hands shake.

The room suddenly feels freezing. I pull my sleeves all the way down and stick my hands inside them.

“Ryan, you must realize what this looks like.” Kulpa’s tone is gentler than his partner’s. I can’t believe they’re pulling the good cop, bad cop routine on me. “Your father’s note implies that you have knowledge of his crimes.”

My aunt gasps. “Are you people insane? Ryan had nothing to do with Gabriel’s crimes. She was a child!”

I’m speechless. I share her sentiments entirely. Are they out of their minds?

The agents press their lips together at Maggie’s tongue-lashing. “Come on,” Foster pushes. “You must know something, Ryan. Think back. Was there anything—a place on the property? Somewhere you vacationed?”

“We dug up that property pretty hard, back in the day,” Kulpa says in his good cop voice. “But is there somewhere special you two used to go?”

“Just the woods,” I answer helplessly. “That’s where we hung up the birdhouses. Either that or we’d be in the meadow.”

“Where else?” Kulpa asks. “You went on vacations, right?”

“I don’t think so. My mom didn’t have a lot of time off. She was always at the hospital.”

“Exactly,” snaps Foster. “And while your mother was nursing people back to health, your father was taking their lives—”

“Gentlemen, stop,” Maggie snaps back. “You’re upsetting her. She doesn’t know anything about it.”

“Ryan.” Foster leans in closer to me, ignoring my aunt entirely. He has that rigid, no-nonsense look like he’s trying too hard to be tough. “You know what your father’s note tells me? It tells me you know where the remains of his victims are.”

“You mean this note?” I hold up the envelope, and my hand shakes violently. “This note written by a psychotic killer who refers to his victims as birds? Who somehow convinced himself that he loved them and was taking care of them by killing them? You trust the words of this man?”

Foster remains unconvinced. “That line: Make sure they are never disturbed.” He quotes from the letter. He’s memorized the damn thing. “He couldn’t have made it clearer that you know something, Ryan.”

“I don’t know anything,” I insist, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I was just a kid—”

“A kid, right,” he cuts in. “The ‘innocent child’ defense only gets you so far. You mean to tell me he wrote that note specifically to you, and you don’t have a single idea what he meant? No hint where he might have buried those women?”

My vision blurs again as I struggle to stay calm. “I don’t know anything. My dad was…I didn’t even know about him until he was arrested.”

Foster scoffs. “He groomed you, didn’t he? Made you his little accomplice?”

“That’s enough,” warns Kulpa. He places a hand on Foster’s shoulder, but the younger agent shrugs it off, his gaze still burning into mine.

“You’re protecting him,” he accuses. “Maybe he made you swear to keep his secrets, maybe he trained you to hide the evidence. You could even be facing charges for—”

“I didn’t do anything!” My voice cracks, echoing in the office. “I didn’t know what he did, and I don’t know where those bodies are—”

“Stop talking, Ryan,” Maggie tells me. A warning. She stands, her face thunderous. “We’re done here, gentlemen.”

“Mrs. Shipley,” Kulpa starts, but she slices a hand through the air to silence him.

“No. If you truly believe my niece is guilty of something, arrest her. But if you have any decency, let her be. She’s answered enough questions for tonight.”

Foster’s jaw tightens, but Kulpa gives a resigned nod.

“Let’s go,” Maggie says, pulling me to my feet. She grabs her purse, along with the manila envelope containing my father’s letter.

I’m numb as she steers me out of the room. The hallway swims before me, but her touch feels solid, grounding. Outside by the car, she lets go and opens the truck door for me.

I don’t have to look up to know she’s furious. “Don’t listen to them, darlin’. You were a child. None of this is your fault.”

My legs feel rubbery as I sink into the passenger seat.

“Let me lock up and we’ll go home,” she promises, and then she’s gone, ushering the FBI agents out of her office.

From the truck, I can’t hear what she’s saying to them, but I can guess.

The rigid set of their shoulders as they stalk toward their SUV tells me they received another Maggie Shipley rebuke.

On the way home, my aunt stares straight ahead and says, “Maybe the letter will make more sense to you later.”

A hot stab of pain slices into my chest. She wants me to look at it again? That means she thinks the same thing the agents do. That I’m the only one who can tell the world where my father hid his victims.

My stomach roils at the thought of reading his suicide note again. Reading his unhinged thoughts, sifting through word by word, trying to decode it, to make sense of the ramblings of a crazy mind.

When Maggie pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, I glance over at her. “Can you put that…” I gesture to the envelope sticking out of her purse. “Maybe put it in your office or something? I don’t want it in my room where Jasmine might see it.”

“Of course. Let me know if or when you’d like to read it again. But don’t push yourself. Take your time.”

By the time I’m trudging through the front door, my body feels drained.

Like all my nerves have been wrung out and left to dry.

I keep my head down, ducking straight into my room.

Jasmine follows, crowding me, peppering me with questions about what happened with Everett.

Apparently, Nikki told her I went over there.

I keep it vague, all of it. My talk with Everett, the pretend errand Maggie and I had to run in town to prepare for Sunday’s open house. Only when I fake a headache and start getting ready for bed does Jasmine back off. Sort of.

I’ve just burrowed under the covers when she says, “We’re still good for the lumberyard on Saturday, right?”

My voice is muffled beneath the blanket. “Yeah, sure.” The words feel thick, sticking in my throat. Jasmine’s palpable excitement only makes it worse.

I barely sleep. I toss and turn, my father’s face flashing through my mind, twisting into different shapes. That note…Why? Why would he do that to me?

How could he ever think that I’d guard his precious bodies? Even if I knew where they were, I would never keep them hidden. Keep them safe.

He was crazy.

He must’ve been. I know they ran psychological tests on him. I know he was declared sane and therefore eligible for prison and not an institution for the criminally insane.

But he had to be crazy. A sane man wouldn’t murder seven women. A sane man wouldn’t charge his daughter with the task of protecting their remains.

I desperately try to purge him from my brain, to rid myself of the terrifying thoughts, but every time I shut my eyes, those thoughts creep back in, holding me captive.