AUGUST 1972
He caught a glimpse of movement behind a window, and a moment later, the front door inched open. A narrow-faced young woman stuck her head out. “Hi!” She smiled as if Jack was there to give her the Publisher’s Clearing House grand prize. “Just a sec, I need to get decent!” The door slammed shut behind her.
Russell had gotten out of the squad car. “What do you think that was all about?” Jack quizzed.
“Probably hiding her stash.” Russell was looking at the roofline of the many-gabled house, at the barn loft, at the tall maples growing along the edge of the dooryard. His fingers flexed, once, as if closing around an invisible rifle.
The door opened again and the narrow-faced girl came out, a spangly gypsy-fabric skirt whisking around her bare ankles and feet. A young man emerged on her heels, wearing boots and overalls and more beard and hair than Jesus Christ. His smile was a good twenty degrees cooler than the girl’s had been. “Can I help you, Officer?” His eyes flicked toward Russell. He took in the army boots and the brush cut, frowning slightly.
Recognition? Jack motioned for Russell to stay put and advanced across the dusty drive toward the couple. “Jack Liddle, Millers Kill chief of police.” He smiled, let his voice drop to a quieter conversational tone. “You know my young friend back there?”
The hippie farmer shook his head. “Is he plainclothes?” The girl’s smile bent a little.
Jack made a mental note to come back here sometime when he wasn’t trying to get information from these people. If he could borrow a drug-sniffing dog from Albany, he had a feeling he’d turn up a whole bunch of interesting stuff. Not today, however. “No, Russell there’s helping me out.” He beckoned the boy forward. “I’m looking for a missing girl.” The team was using the first picture taken on-site, with the sun on her face and her hair falling around. She looked, if not alive, at least less dead. He pulled it out of his jacket and handed it to the couple.
“That’s Natalie,” the girl said. “Isn’t it?”
The man frowned. “Maybe. I’ve never seen her with makeup on. And I’ve never seen her hair in a braid.”
Given both of them had hair that was tangled and none too clean, Jack thought the difference might have been shampoo and a comb. He glanced at Russell, who was craning a bit, trying to see the picture in their hands. He seemed indifferent to the hippie pair, and Jack would have said he was relaxed until the door slammed. Russell flinched and jerked backward.
The girl had already turned toward the house, but the bearded guy caught the movement. “Are you okay, man?”
Russell’s mouth tightened. He nodded, once.
“Isaac, Fran, what’s going on?” A shorter bearded kid ambled across the dooryard. His brown hair was held back in a ponytail and he was barefoot beneath a pair of rolled-up pants that could have been sewn out of old flour sacks.
“The chief of police here is trying to find this girl.” Isaac handed the picture to the new guy. “Does she look like Natalie to you?”
Ponytail studied the photo. “Yeah, that’s Nat. See? She looks pissed off even when she’s—” His brows quirked. He lifted his head to stare at Jack. “What is this? Where did you get this?”
“I’m sorry. If that’s your friend Natalie, she was found dead yesterday.”
Isaac stepped forward. “What the hell?” Behind him, the girl started to cry.
The ponytailed kid continued to stare at the photo. “How … who…”
“She was found in Cossayuharie.” Jack glanced at Russell, who shifted uncomfortably. “We’re not sure what happened yet. Can you tell me about her? What’s her full name?”
Isaac and the other kid looked at Fran. “I don’t know,” she said.
“We don’t use last names,” the ponytailed boy said. He sounded as if he was just realizing why that might not be such a great idea.
“It implies ownership,” Isaac said. “A commune is a new kind of family, where everyone belongs to himself.”
“Right.” Jack didn’t bother to keep the skepticism out of his voice. “I take it she was living here?”
“Yeah.” Isaac nodded. “Until, um, four days ago.”
“Last Saturday? What happened?”
“She got tired of the work, man. When we started the collective, everybody knew they’d have to put in long hours. Living off the land isn’t just braiding flowers and rolling around in the hayloft.”
“How long had Natalie been living here?”
The girl—Fran—rubbed her forearm across her eyes. “Since March. We met the guys on spring break and just … didn’t go back.”
“She was going to college?”
Fran nodded. “Vassar.”
“But you don’t know her name?”
“She went to Vassar. I went to Barnard.”
Russell snorted.
Isaac glared at him. “College is bullshit, man. We’re out here living in the real world.”
“Oh, the real world.” Russell crossed his arms. “Living on a farm you’re renting with your parents’ money.”
Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you think putting on a uniform and going overseas to kill people is a better use of your time.”
Jack’s fist hit Russell’s chest before the boy could respond. “Enough.” He nodded toward the girl. “You were here since March. When did Natalie start talking about leaving?”
Fran glanced from Russell to Isaac and back again before addressing Jack. “She started complaining a couple months ago. When we first got here, there wasn’t much for us to do, but once the weather got nice, we were outside all day, working in the orchard or hoeing. Nat really hated hoeing. And she didn’t like”—her eyes shifted to the boy with the ponytail—“sharing. We had some … fights about that.”
Harlene had said it was a free-love commune. Jack wondered if Natalie had discovered she wasn’t as free-thinking as all that. “How many of you are there?”
“Me and Terry”—Isaac thumbed toward Ponytail—“Natalie, before she left, and Fran, Susie, and Wind.”
“Wind?”
“Her real name’s Wanda,” Fran said. “She didn’t think it suited her.”
Jack could swear he heard Russell’s eyes rolling. “And how did you all come to be renting the Stevenson place?”
The ponytailed guy—Terry—raised his hand. “I knew about it.”
“You from around here, son?” The kid nodded. “What’s your name?”
“McKellan. Terry McKellan.”
“I know you,” Russell said. “From high school. You were a senior when I was a sophomore.” The older boy looked at him doubtfully. “I played basketball? Forward?”
Terry’s eyes lit up. He pointed his finger. “Russ.”
“Yeah.”
“Weren’t you drafted, man?”
Russell shrugged. “I’m back.”
Jack stepped in and gestured to the girl. “So. She took off on Saturday. What happened?”
“Friday night, we all went to the opening of the fair. For fun, you know? There was … things had been tense, we all needed a break.”
“Did anything happen at the fairgrounds?”
“No. We wandered around. Went on rides. The usual stuff.”
“Did you all stick together?”
Fran rolled her eyes. “The guys went to the agricultural tents.”
“You can learn a lot of good stuff,” Isaac snapped. “Farming is more than just sticking seeds in the dirt, you know.”
Jack steered them back on track. “How about you girls?”
“Not all the time, no. Wind and I went to get our fortunes told. Nat took off.” She looked sideways at Isaac. “I think she might have gone for an Italian sausage.”
“We’re vegetarians.” Isaac’s voice was dry.
“Did she meet anyone?”
Fran shook her head. “No. We all caught up again and came home. For me, I don’t know, it was a nice break, and I was happy to get back to work the next day.”
“But not for Natalie.”
“Maybe it reminded her of what she was missing? All I know is, she said she was going to leave and she did.”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“She had a backpack. Some books and clothes, toothbrush, things like that. She didn’t have much. None of us do.”
“We’re living simply,” Isaac corrected.
Jack plucked the photo from Terry’s hand and held it in front of Fran. “How about this outfit? Did she leave here with this?”
“No. She didn’t have anything dressy like that. Jeans, a couple miniskirts. You know.”
“How did she get off the farm?”
“I drove her to the bus station in Glens Falls,” Isaac said. “We got there at half past three. Gave her her share of the money and wished her luck. And that’s the last I saw of her.”
Jack looked at the girl. “Did Natalie tell you what her plans were?”
“Not where she was going,” Fran said. “Just that she really wanted to take a shower. The water pressure from our well’s no good.” Isaac glared at Fran and she raised her hands. “I don’t mind, but Nat did. She wanted a shower and a hamburger and a couple of drinks.”
“Fran, can you show me whatever she left behind? And if you have a photo of her, that would be real helpful. Russell, you stay here.” Jack figured that would split up the group, and sure enough, Isaac stayed in the dooryard while Fran and the ponytailed boy led him to the house. What was his name again? “Terry.” The kid turned back toward him. “I need the VIN numbers of your farm machinery. Could you copy them down for me?”
The kid screwed up his face. “What? Why?”
Jack motioned him closer. “I don’t want to say, but you’re a smart man. I’m sure you can imagine why.”
Bafflement was writ large on the boy’s face. “Okay. Right. Sure.” Bless his heart, he took the bait and ambled off, casting backward glances as Jack and Fran climbed the steps and went inside without him.
The house, surprisingly, wasn’t much different from other working farmhouses Jack had known. Bare floors—easier to clean—sturdy wooden furniture, no clutter or mess in the kitchen. A heavy black phone sat next to the calling bench in the hall. The Indian-print fabrics and poorly thrown pottery were unique, and where other farmhouse mudrooms would have a row of rubber boots against the wall, here there was a pile of ugly sandals. “Our room’s upstairs,” Fran said.
Jack followed her to the second floor. “You two were roommates?”
“There are four bedrooms, so we girls shared two and the guys each got one.” She gestured toward an open door. “Here it is.”
Jack looked around the plain, white-plastered room. Two ascetic twin beds, layered in more Indian fabric. A single dresser. A shelf holding a row of paperbacks including Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, some poetry. Not exactly what Harlene would have imagined. “Did Natalie leave anything behind? That you know of?”
Fran opened the narrow closet door. A pair of winter coats and some woolen jumpers were shoved to one side, making way for summer-weight shirts and skirts. “The black coat and some of the winter clothes are hers.” She pulled a shoebox off the shelf, opening it to show photographs, a journal, and some girlish trinkets.
“Hers?” Jack said hopefully.
“No, these are mine.” Fran handed him a Polaroid. “Here’s a bunch from when we were in Daytona.” Jack shuffled through the pictures until he came to one that showed Natalie alone. She was smiling toward the camera, one arm shielding her face from the sun, bright blue Florida waters visible behind her.
“May I keep this one?”
Fran nodded. “I wish I had paid more attention when she started talking about leaving. I didn’t think she’d really go.”
Jack squatted so he could look beneath the beds. Nothing there. He tipped a book off the shelf, riffled through it, then repeated the process with several other volumes. Nothing there, either. He delved into the pocket of the coat Fran indicated belonged to Natalie, but only came up with a crumpled tissue and a peppermint.
He turned to Fran. “You said Natalie had trouble sharing.”
The girl nodded.
“You weren’t talking about sharing clothes or food, were you?”
She shook her head.
“Was she involved with one of the boys?”
Fran twisted a part of her gypsy skirt between her hands. “We’re not supposed to be exclusive. We’re breaking beyond traditional bourgeois morality.”
Jack waited for her to continue.
“She and Terry had been together. He was the guy she met at spring break, he was why she came here, I think. At least at first. But then Isaac started leaning on them, saying they’d ruin the whole thing if they paired off like geese. So…”
“They broke up?”
Fran blew out a breath. “One night after dinner, Isaac took her up to his room. We didn’t see her again until breakfast.”
“And Terry? How did he react?”
“He tried with Wind. I mean, she was perfectly cool with it and all, but I’m not sure anything really happened.”
“Was he angry at Natalie?”
“No. But she was angry with him. I think she thought he should have…” Fran looked out the old window. Its wavering glass panes were propped open by a simple screen. “He should have come after her. She liked it when boys wanted her. Not that I’m judging,” she added quickly. “I think … I got the feeling she would have been happy if Isaac and Terry fought over her, you know? But Isaac didn’t treat her any different after they, you know, and Terry was trying so hard to be okay with it he practically ignored her. That was when she started talking about splitting.”
“How soon after that did she leave?”
“Maybe two weeks?”
“Did Terry and Isaac—” Jack’s question was cut off by a shout from outside. He pressed against the window, but the porch roof below kept him from seeing what was happening.
There was another yell. He swung out of the bedroom and thudded down the stairs, reaching the door in two strides and loping out into the front yard.
Russell and Isaac were wrestling on the grass, throwing punches and clawing at each other. Terry stood nearby, a hand clapped over his jaw, shouting unheeded commands to “Quit it! Stop it!”
Behind him, Jack heard Fran’s terrified “Oh, no!” He struck out across the lawn, wishing like hell he had slid his baton into its slot on his duty belt. Before he could reach the boys, Russell rolled Isaac onto his stomach and straddled his back, pinning his hips and legs. Russell slammed the other boy’s head into the dirt, then, while Isaac was stunned, twisted his arms back in a brutally efficient hold.
“What the hell, boy? Get off him!” Jack fisted Russell’s collar and hauled him bodily off the other young man. “I brought you along for your point of view, not so you could start World War—”
As he railed at Russell, Isaac collected himself, surged off the ground, and head-butted Russell. Jack barely escaped going down himself. The two boys rolled in the dirt, fists flying, teeth bared, eyes wide and wild.
“You!” Jack pointed to the ponytailed guy. “You got a garden hose hooked up?”
The boy tore his gaze away from the brawl and nodded.
“Turn it on and bring it over here!” Jack pelted back to his squad car, popped the door, and grabbed his baton. By the time he got back to the still-fighting combatants, Terry had unspooled the hose and was standing by.
“Hose ’em down,” Jack ordered. “Get ’em right in their faces, if you can.” A nose full of ice-cold well water ought to cool them down some. Jack stepped in and began applying the baton freely, bashing an arm here, whacking a leg there. Terry sprayed the boys enthusiastically, apparently feeling no qualms about half-drowning the leader of the commune.
Within seconds they had ceased hitting each other, turning their energies to escaping. They coughed and choked and crawled, reduced to animal brains fleeing pain and wetness. When Russell staggered to his feet, Jack grabbed him and propelled him toward the car. He slammed the kid over the hood, one hand on the back of his neck, one between his shoulder blades. “Stay here.”
He turned back to discover Isaac still under aquatic assault. “Terry! Put the damn hose away!”
“Oh.” The boy looked at the hose in his hand as if he didn’t recognize it. “Sure.”
Isaac had lurched to his feet by the time Jack reached him. The boy was bent over, clutching his midsection with one hand and wiping away the water streaming out of his hair with the other. “He’s fucking crazy!” The boy’s voice was almost gone. “You oughta put him away!”
“What happened?”
Isaac wheezed. “I asked him about being a soldier, that’s all.” He wrung out his beard, still bent over. “He freaked out on me. They come back, they’re not fit to be with the rest of us, man. They’re trained killers, like some kind of goddamn Doberman.” He pressed a hand against his side and gritted his teeth. “Christ, I think he broke a fucking rib.”
“Were you talking about Natalie before you started throwing punches?”
“Natalie? Hell, no. Why would we be talking about Natalie?”
“I understand you took her away from Terry over there.” Jack tilted his head toward the house, where the boy in question was re-looping the hose over its hook. “I understand there were some bad feelings, after.”
Isaac railed and rattled and spat on the lawn. Not blood, fortunately. “You don’t understand much. I didn’t take Nat from anybody. She doesn’t—she didn’t belong to Terry. None of us belong to anyone else. We’re not doing that jealous caveman shit.”
Terry, having rolled the hose neatly enough to satisfy the fussiest Dutch farmer, had rejoined them. He gave Isaac a sideways look at the leader’s pronouncement, but didn’t contradict him. Jack wondered how many times, throughout history, ideologues convinced themselves they could change human nature just by saying it was so. “Do you want somebody to take a look at that? I can drop you at the hospital.”
“No, thanks. Just leash your dog and get him the hell out of here.”
“One more thing. Where were you two between Friday when you left Natalie at the bus station in Glens Falls and Sunday morning?”
“The hell?” Isaac tried to bellow, but the pummeling had left his voice thready. “You think we had something to do with it? You’re crazy.” Jack waited. Isaac finally sighed. “I had a couple beers at the Green Diner after I took her to the bus station. I came back home, we worked the rest of Saturday, then Wind and Susie and I went to hear a band at SPAC. Terry and Fran stayed home.”
“That’s how you remember it, Terry?”
The boy nodded. “Yeah. Except I was gone part of the day on Saturday, meeting with some local grocery stores to see if we could expand the market for our produce.”
Jack kept his face neutral, but mentally, he was kicking rocks across the drive. A concert at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, with its open-air seating, couldn’t be more anonymous. There’d be no way of proving Isaac’s alibi. And “at home with another person” was the second-least-likely-to-crack story, after “in the confessional booth.”
“Okay. Thank you for your help.” Jack nodded toward Isaac’s chest. “Get that looked at if it starts to hurt worse or if you have trouble breathing.” Jack turned to go.
“Umm. Officer?” Terry stopped him. “Will you let us know? What you find out about Natalie, I mean.”
“I will, son, yes.” Jack might be doing it at the end of a warrant, but he would let them know.