She pressed on tenderly. “Do you think it played into your rebellion in your younger years?”
I nodded. “It was a lot of pressure, and I didn’t want any of it. Let Eleanor be the perfect child. I couldn’t do it.”
“Do you remember that day?”
I waffled over my answer. “Yes and no. Certain parts are so clear, like it was yesterday, a familiar painting, or a storybook I have read a thousand times. But I have no memories of other parts. I don’t remember a funeral, but there is a grave. At least I think there is. My parents would never tell me where to look for it.”
“And even with your special skills, you’ve never tried to find it or research it?”
I held my breath until my lungs ached and then let it all rush out again. “Once, I started poking around, when I still lived in California with my parents. My mom caught me going through old files about Jackie, and she flipped out. Dad screamed until his face was nearly purple, and I gave up. It was more than they could bear to deal with it, so I left it buried.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for all of you.” Dr. Rawlings glanced at her watch. “I’m really sorry, but that’s about all the time we have today, Lindy. Why don’t you come back next week, and we will continue?”
I stood but paused. “Are you going to recommend me for the position?”
There was hesitation before she answered. “It is too soon to tell. Come back next week, and we will continue.”
I left her office exhausted. The mud in my veins was from more than the fatigue I normally fought. It was from the weight of secrets and of nightmares never discussed before. It was caused by the memories that were locked away where even I could not find them.
Chapter 9
I’m not sure what I dreamed that night, but I knew it was bad, haunting. It was the sort of thing that sticks with you even as you wake up, like claws pulling you back to the underworld where that sort of dark thought originates.
I went for a run, just to put space between me and the feeling, but even after 8 miles, it still clung to my skin. It felt like memories, scenes from another life, but not my own. I ignored the posting from PI Net and took a long shower instead. Once the steam cleansed my mind, I regained my grip on reality.
**********
The Whatcom County office was located in Bellingham, just fifteen minutes or so from my house. The old building was musty, at least to me, or maybe that was my own resistance to searching through actual books. Sure, I could spend the time on the Internet researching my aunt’s church, but I had found that there was value in searching tangible evidence. When you rely on electronic information, you are also relying on the person that transcribed it, and I knew that people could be faulty, even on their best days.
I had met Ophelia, the keeper of all things musty, on prior occasions, and she was all too happy to see me—or any other human being. It was not long before I was searching property records and looking at maps of the land. The owner was listed as Richard Wagnor, which felt odd since the Edwards acted as though it was theirs. I looked at the property lines. They extended past the church itself and included an acre behind the church, at least a mile of the country road, and, of course, the cemetery I had spotted on my first visit.
I dug deeper and found the name of the previous owner, the preacher my aunt had adored, Neil Davidson. His address was scribbled in the margin, a place in downtown Ferndale, and I quickly copied it in my notebook. It was a great example of why the hard copy was always better. No transcriber would have included that tidbit.
I scoured the paperwork a moment longer before I started to pack it up. As I folded the map and tucked it away, I noticed a little symbol on the bottom corner of some of the records. It was almost a capital A but with a swirling embellishment on the right side. As I studied it I noted that the swoop formed a near perfect infinity sign, crossing the center of the A twice. Once I saw it, I began seeing it on most of the paperwork. Large, small, in the corners, and even on one of the photocopied maps of the property lines directly over the site of the church. I did not know what to make of it, but I copied it down next to the original owner’s address and sorted everything back into its original place. I bid Ophelia goodbye and headed back to Ferndale. I had a preacher to meet.
**********
The address listed was heavily overgrown by weeds and tall grasses. The chain link gate hung off its hinges at the base, and I worried as I pushed through it that it might tumble to the ground. Even the discarded left shoe and the collection of glass bottles on the porch step set my nerves on edge a little. Like a haunted house from a nightmare, the dilapidated building loomed in front of me. It did not appear hospitable. I set my foot on the front porch, but the wood creaked a little too loudly for my taste, and I quickly withdrew it.
“You looking for Peter?” The croaking voice made me wonder if a bullfrog had magically obtained the ability to speak, but as I turned I spotted a hunched, old man glaring at me from the sidewalk. “Are you one of his lady friends?”
I did not know Peter, but the way the human bullfrog had said “lady friends” made me really eager to clarify.
“No. I am looking for Neil Davidson.”
The old man made an apologetic shrug. “You’re too late. Father Davidson has been dead six months now.”
Thoroughly intrigued, I navigated the high weeds one more time so I could speak to my new friend a little more clearly. “Do you know how he died?”
I knew the answer even before he said it.
“Heart attack. Old ticker just gave out on him. Such a shame. He was a good preacher. I used to go to his place out in Laurel. Now this new group has it, and it’s not the same.”
I did not want to seem too eager. Old ladies loved to gossip, but typically old men felt that things were better off left in the past. “I heard they bought it from Neil.”
A laugh exploded from his hunched body. “Ha! Strong-armed him is more like it. Pressured him until he broke and then left him here to die of a broken heart.” His head shook in disgust. “Not sure what a group would want with a church, especially one like this, just a hole in the wall out in the country. It seems wrong to push a man out like that after so many years.”
I nodded. “Who is Peter?”
The noise that came out of him showed his utter contempt. “The Father’s good-for-nothing son who spoiled away the little inheritance he got and never mows the lawn.”
I could tell the latter was what infuriated him more.
“I would like to talk to Peter if possible. Do you know where I might find him?”
The old man had already started walking, his patience completely spent. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. Peter must be at the bar.”
**********
The phrase, “the bar,” might have been confusing in another town, but within the narrow boundaries of Ferndale, there was only one bar. While the name changed, the location stayed the same. I headed for Main Street, keeping the 25 mph speed limit that blanketed the entire town. As I neared the bar, I struggled to find parking along the street. Never being one for patience, and wanting to get home so I could finally ease the grumbling that had erupted in my stomach, I parked along a portion of the sidewalk that was clear. I locked the car and pretended not to see the “no parking” sign that was posted. After all, I would be gone only a minute, and it wasn’t handicapped parking or a fire lane, just a section of curb that was designated for deliveries.
I quickened my pace and walked the two blocks to the bar, whatever it was called these days. The sun was out for once, and it was even a little warm. It was pleasant at first, but my body that had become acclimated to the lower temperatures began to respond with perspiration. It did not matter because I could see the building where I hoped to see Peter Davidson.
I pushed open the door and stepped in. The room was dark, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. For 3:00 in the afternoon, the place was relatively full. At the bar closest to me, the spac
e was full. Beyond the arches that cut the space in half, I could see a few more hunched bodies at the bar, even a few at a corner booth, talking quietly. It was likely that the latest shift on the oil refinery had ended and like my grandfather used to say, it was time for “a little drink at the watering hole.”
I proceeded with caution. It was one thing to pull a job at Johnny’s when I knew I had someone in my pocket if I needed him. It was quite another to start getting nosey somewhere I had never been. The bar was cool beneath my fingertips. A sea of clear resin made it quick to clean between patrons. A tough woman, 4 inches taller than I was with biceps I could only dream of, asked, “What can I getcha?”
I frowned slightly. She did not even ask for my identification. Gone were the days of looking like a minor.
“I’m looking for someone,” I replied. I could feel the tension burning in the men on either side of me. It was likely they were two individuals that were hoping not to be found.
“This is a no parking zone. You gotta drink,” the woman insisted.
“Fine,” I consented. “I’ll take a cola.”
She fetched the drink and set it on the counter, her crankiness showing. I paid and said, “I’m looking for Peter Davidson. I heard he might be here.”
The man to my right twitched slightly but did not move. The bartender looked and frowned deeply. It was so deliberate I knew her words would be lies. “Peter hasn’t been in for a while. Hard time with his dad dying, ya know? What do you need with him anyway?”
When people are trying to cover something up, most of the time they will look at anything but whatever they are trying to hide. She was clearly avoiding looking at the man next to me. He had sandy blond hair and was thin but with a belly that told me he frequented the bar regularly. His eyes stayed low, focused on the frosty amber drink in front of him.
I considered telling the truth for a moment. It could work to be forthright, and after all, it was not like I had anything to hide this time.
“My name is Lindy Johnson. I am a P.I. working a case. I wanted to talk to his father, but I seem to be a little too late.”
The bartender was about to speak when a glass crashed to the floor a couple of seats down. I turned in the direction of the noise. A stool toppled over, and I wondered if there was a fight of some sort.
But then I saw him. 6 feet 2 inches and seething. The name I had just given was not the one he knew me by, but he must have recognized my voice and put it together. The alcohol did not help his disposition. Rather, it changed him into a ball of rage, especially once he saw my face and confirmed it was me. At least this time he did not have his baseball bat.
“Lindsey! I have some words for you.” Marco Huston yelled, slurring his words. The way his fists balled up, I was pretty sure there was more than words in store for me.
In the ruckus, the man next to me, likely Peter Davidson, burst out the front door. It served me right for being honest for once.
“Marco, you’re drunk,” I reasoned as I backed away slowly. “We can talk another time.”
He was only buzzed, which was unfortunate for me because I knew I could outrun a stumbling drunk, but I was not so confident about escaping a man powered by anger with a stride far longer than my own.
“You ruined my life!” His volume boomed over the small space, and his chest heaved as if he had just finished a long run. His teeth were bared, like a wild dog seeking a neck to snap. “Tasha was the best thing that ever happened to me, and you destroyed it! She left me!”
I had backed almost to the doors, but he had kept pace, and a couple of his buddies trailed behind him for support. The bartender’s expression said that she had seen a brawl before and she had not liked the cleanup. “Marco, if you have a problem, take it outside.”
“She ruined my life!” he screamed, the alcohol certainly impairing his judgment. I could see the white around his iris, the veins bulging at his neck. “I was going to marry Tasha.”
My snarkiness got the best of me. “Just as soon as she broke up with her fiancé, right?”
His face twisted in anger, red with rage, and as the yell exploded from deep inside him, I knew he had snapped. I turned on my heel and fled, letting the swinging door slam behind me. I did not have to turn around to know that Marco and his two friends were on my tail. I could hear the yelling and crashing as they pursued. I ran up the street toward my car. I was confident I could outrun them for two blocks. I had sprinting power and sobriety on my side.
As I neared the space where I had left my car, I saw only a tow truck pulling my sedan away, likely headed for the impound lot. I stopped in my tracks as I considered running after it, but Marco’s thundering footsteps brought me back to the more urgent matter of the moment. Seeing a break in traffic, I darted through the crosswalk to the opposite side of the street and began jogging back up the hill. I regretted my lack of lunch and inadequate breakfast as my energy waned and my pace lagged.
Horns blared as Marco and his lackeys crossed through traffic to cut me off. How could I blame them? With vehicles restricted to 25 mph, it was not like they were risking their lives. I dug deep and urged my muscles to keep fighting. I turned a corner to lose them and then quickly took another turn to keep them from sight. I neared the edge of a building and cut around a final corner. I could still hear them, but they sounded far more confused than before. There was no place to hide, and I was without a car. I thought about surrender. Marco would not hit a woman, would he? In his inebriated state and with all the anger I had caused him, I was not so positive. It was not like he had really high moral standards after all. And I had destroyed his life…twice.
“She’s gotta be over here. Check the hardware store!” I heard a male voice yell.
I glanced at the sign overhead. Just my luck. The hardware store. With no time to find another place, I ducked inside and scurried down a main aisle, glad that the cashier was busy with a customer. At the end of the aisle, I pressed myself against the display and held my breath. It was only a matter of time before they found me, and I needed a plan.
“Huckleberry?”
My insides melted at the sound of his voice like snow in a rainstorm. Ryder Billings stood just two aisles over, examining two steel pipes. I was about to speak when I heard the bell on the entrance ring and familiar voices. “Take that one. I’ll take the next one. She’s got to be in here.”
I pressed myself against the endcap. I could not ask for Ryder’s help again. I had made a promise to him, and I was not willing to go back on my word. I had to think of a way out. Marco’s footsteps were only two aisles over, hesitant, starting my way, and then turning back, likely wondering if I had kept running. Maybe he would just leave.
Edging around the endcap to the next aisle, I kept close to the metal railing to stay blocked from view. My heart pounded, but my mind remained clear. Marco stepped out from his aisle. I heard his voice, “Hey buddy, you seen a girl in here? Dark hair, attractive, about this tall?”
I could see Ryder. He pulled a face and shook his head. “Sorry, just me back here.”
“Naw, she’s in here,” Marco stated with confidence.
“What do you need her for?” Ryder asked carefully.
The malevolence that dripped from Marco’s voice made my skin crawl. “Not much. I owe her something.”
His footsteps moved on. Now he was just one aisle over. His buddies had lost interest. I could hear them talking to the girl at the front counter, flirting, as they asked for her number. They did not have an investment of revenge that Marco had.
“Lindsey,” Marco taunted, “Lindsey, I know you are in here. Come on out before you get hurt.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and calculated the distance between my position and the front door. The odds were not good. Even if I surprised the two at the desk, which was unlikely, it would not take them long to catch me on the street. With Marco only 6 feet away from discovering me, I was trapped like a rat.
A strong hand gripped mine and yank
ed me from the aisle. I nearly screamed, but Ryder pressed me into his chest with such strength that it nearly knocked the wind out of me. “Stay small,” he whispered.
Behind his larger frame, I was barely visible. Ryder’s arms reached overhead to examine a paint sample on the highest shelf. Meanwhile, I tightened every muscle to remain as vertical as possible. Ryder’s flannel shirt was soft, with small splatters of paint dotted over the material near my eyes. I tried to name all the shades to keep my mind from calculating how close Marco could get before he realized the trick we had pulled. I could see black, red, and a little paint that reminded me of honey. The footsteps approached, until it felt as though he were on top of us.
Marco started to speak, but since Ryder looked busy with the paint samples, he turned back and started for another aisle. As his footsteps moved away, I started to make my escape. With lightning speed, Ryder gripped my arm and halted my movement. Our eyes met, and he whispered, “Stay put.”
I focused on the flecks of paint again and tried to convince myself that the pounding in my chest was from my impending danger, not Ryder’s proximity. That cologne, it was intoxicating. I let myself have the luxury of one deep breath. Mountains, trails in the backcountry, visions of afternoon picnics and berry picking in the countryside flashed in my mind.
Then Marco’s shoes squeaked, and I knew he was close.
Ryder shifted slightly, stretching to reach a sample card on the far side of the display. The angle offered me better coverage. It also pressed his muscular chest tightly against my face, the buttons of his long-sleeve Henley creating an impression in my skin. I gripped the fabric to maintain my balance, my palms sweaty from the adrenaline.
How long had it been since I had been close to a man? Three years? Maybe four? Long enough that I could not even remember. His closeness was like a drug to an addict who had been clean for decades. I had forgotten what it felt like to have my stomach flip like a gymnast in search of a gold medal. The rush in my veins was unfamiliar but exciting. Still, I scolded myself, it was not real, and it was all self-serving.
Caskets & Conspiracies Page 9