Greatest Change

Chapter Nine: Closer

Chapter Nine: Closer

"The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides."

- Audrey Hepburn

Now, the problem that existed was the lack of truth in this investigation. Booker knew the truth. That truth was the fact Clara was not kidnapped; she ran away. He was aware of Clara, in fact, he found her to be the most intelligent woman he had ever known. According to Charlotte, oh how his heart ached for her, she spoke of a Native taking her things. There were missing pieces to this, things either hidden from him or not explained. While two different problems existed, they were just different sides of the same coin. On one, Clara was kidnapped by savages. If that was certainly true, a truth the older detective doubted, Booker's own experience with Natives in the war did not assure him Clara would be alive. These Indians were not stupid, Booker knew that, and he knew them. His mother was a part of a tribe, but that story was buried along with his past. However, he knew eventually that all treasures could not be buried forever.

The second side being she ran away. This anecdote created, in fact, a greater issue, at least if Booker ever wanted to 'succeed' in this investigation. Clara was a clever girl; she obviously had things planned. She was not one to just leap into action without properly calculating her options. Whatever she did was planned. Now, Charlotte's story with the Native would complement their findings at the river. Clara had fallen in, but so did the Native. According to the footprints, that same man was also responsible for pinning Colin to the ground, a proud accomplishment at that. Booker swore he would have killed Colin if he had ever found him hurting Clara. Colin took extreme measures to make sure his beatings were as private as possible. Words were not enough to condemn a highly successful lawyer.

So, Clara fell in the river, but no doubt had help in getting out. From there, the story turns blank. Hours turned into days, and with rainfall came the mud covering up any evidence of tracks out of that river. Booker did not have any fear for Clara; he had a feeling that she would not have succumbed to the thrash of water. If Clara were ever to die, it would be sacrificial; just a sense he had. Either that, or he prayed she'd merely die old in her bed with someone she loved. Booker knew she was somewhere, and while that reassured him, it did not reassure the men who were accompanying him to spy on his investigation. They were no help whatsoever, just an annoyance with their pained questions. Booker would spend nights in the forest like a beggar, or some ancient monastic monk in the desert. Those days turned into a couple of months, all the men growing irritated with their unshaven cheeks and desire for clean clothes.

It was all part of the plan of course. Get them irritated, stir up trouble, and one by one these men would leave. One had already died after being careless and stumbling down a cliff, hitting the sharp rocks below. It was only a matter of time the men would turn on each other, and luckily, today was that day. Booker sat by the small fire, eating the leftovers of a cooked rabbit they had caught last night. The men were bickering with one another, claiming that Mister Robertson's pay did not cover this. Even Booker could see their bitterness towards the wretched man, but these men were no better. No doubt they were criminals, brawlers, and maybe even murderers. However, anyone could change their ways for good coin, but that only went so far.

"I do not understand. The lass is dead. Why don't we just say we found her body and move on?" One of the men groaned, smoking the last of his cigarettes. They had been to town a couple of times only to restock on any necessities. However, they had not been paid in those months. Money was short, and their patience even shorter.

"Mister Robertson would want proof of the bitch's body. Besides, I doubt the bastard would pay us if we returned empty handed," George spoke, trimming the facial hair on his cheek as best as he could. Of course, the men were not kind in talking about Clara. However, Booker knew he would have to remain objective in this; he could not show much care for the missing girl, no matter how personal.