by Olive Balla
Jillie decided that the bones belonged to a woman, since she couldn’t picture anyone putting a man on a folded flower-print dress. And the hair had been long.
The mental picture of those teeth and the skimpy hair attached to a dried, crusty-looking scalp made her shiver. The image would no doubt make an unwelcome addition to her nightmares.
You been chatting to her again?
Those words meant either Mort or Toby murdered the tool chest person, or maybe they both did it.
Regardless, although Jillie hadn’t actually seen Toby kill the man in the trailer, she knew he had. And as soon as she got the chance, she’d turn her drawing over to the police.
But just then, she needed to revise her plan of escape. As she mulled over tidbits of information, some of it learned from her favorite forensic television shows, slivers of thought bubbled up from her survival-brain.
The most important thing was to say nothing about what she found in the toolbox to anyone other than Miss Dixie; there was no way to know how many of the Elliotts were involved in the murder.
Next, she had to pretend the treasure was real; hopefully, that would buy some time.
Finally, she had to figure out a way to get Miss Dix to Moms Potter’s so they could call the police; not only was her godmother a tough old lady, but she had a shotgun and could keep the Elliotts from hurting anyone until the police could get there.
Jillie had heard that the best ideas were usually the simplest. She’d also heard that people see what they expect and want to see.
So, if the Elliotts wanted and expected to see a treasure, that’s what she’d promise them.
By the time Miss Dix turned the truck up the farm’s drive, bits and pieces of an idea had begun to grow. If her plan worked, they might at least have a chance.
And it had better work; Beth was depending on her.
Chapter Fifty
Cleg stood on the Ross’s back porch and watched the goings-on. Things were spiraling out of control—that’s what The Shrike had said, and that’s exactly what was happening. She, Mort, and Toby had become obsessed with finding old man Ross’s treasure, and nothing seemed likely to stop them from getting it.
The more Cleg thought about it, the more he figured that might not be such a bad thing. As sure as God made little green apples, if Margo found a pile of money, she’d light a shuck out of his vicinity. That’s what she’d said, and once that woman set her mind on something, it was as good as done.
Like a flower-scented breeze, the thought of freedom from The Shrike sent sweet images of happiness whistling through his head.
Freedom. Cleg rolled the word around in his mouth, savoring it like a plateful of mashed potatoes and cream gravy. Dreamlike images leapfrogged through his mind. Images of him enjoying unrestricted access to television while eating anything he wanted, as much as he wanted, any time he wanted. Him sitting in his big, easy chair for days, if he chose, while no one badgered him about his weight, and no one shrieked orders. Him saying whatever he wanted to say and thinking anything he wanted to think without fear of being berated. And best of all, he saw himself free from worrying about the next unexpected outbursts that would end in him getting a beating.
He watched the people who made up his family as they discussed what to do with the old woman and argued about the best way to make the girl tell them where to look for the treasure. It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he saw them for who they really were—a gaggle of selfish, hateful strangers.
What had happened to that gentle, sweet kid named Mort who’d only ever wanted to be good at something? Or to the brave young Toby who’d lost his mother? When had they turned into such sharp-faced, hungry-eyed, worthless lumps of humanity?
But worse than that, whatever happened to that young Cleg who’d been so filled with the joy of life? What had he ever done bad enough to condemn him to the years of hell he’d spent with The Shrike?
All he ever wanted was a loving wife, a nice family, a good and peaceful life. He didn’t want the treasure, didn’t give a rat’s patoot about it. But his life would be so much better if Margo got her hands on it.
Cleg didn’t want to hurt anyone. He’d never even been able to bring himself to discipline Mort or Toby. But things were changing, and he had some tough choices to make.
He’d actually kind of liked the little girl, never even considered hurting her. The Shrike had done enough of that for both of them. Nevertheless, she had to be made to tell where her daddy had hidden the map.
The girl clearly cared about that old woman who’d just shown up out of the blue. That made the woman leverage—Cleg’s ticket to freedom.
Maybe his luck was about to change. After shooting one last glance at the people he no longer knew, he shuffled toward the kitchen door.
Chapter Fifty-One
By the time David arrived back at the Elliott house, he’d worked himself into an iridescent fireball of fear and frustration. Barely slowing, he took the curve into the driveway, shoved the gearshift into park, leaped from the Jeep, and ran to his aunt Dix’s car.
No blood or any other sign of struggle meant whatever had happened to his aunt had taken place elsewhere. But the keys dangling from the ignition and the purse shouted that she’d not gone of her own accord.
David made a quick auditory and visual scan of the area. Complete silence—no birdsong, no rustle of undergrowth. Although light shone through the lower floor windows, no movement was visible either from inside or outside the house. It was as if all life had fled the area.
The front door of the house stood ajar. Light poured through the opening and into the yard, where it highlighted dirt, weeds, and rocks.
He adjusted his shoulder holster and approached the house. With the squealing porch planks tracking his progress, he stepped to the door.
Taking care to follow departmental protocol, he shouted his identification through the opening. When no one responded after two more shouts, he went in.
Like a checklist, he verified each bit of his aunt Lil’s message.
…deserted…
Beginning with the upstairs, he did a quick search of the house. After scoping out the basement, he hurried outside.
…held captive in the shed…
Engaging the photo app on his phone as he moved, David strode to the outbuilding. He took several photos of the four sets of footprints outside, careful to leave them undisturbed, then squeezed through the shattered door. Stepping as close to the walls as possible, he surveyed the interior, noting the small footprints mingled with, and in some places covered by, large boot prints about the same as David’s size elevens. Only a few prints from a second adult, a woman’s, judging by their size and shape, led from the door to the tool chest and back outside.
It looked like someone, most likely one of David’s aunts, had broken into the shed. But who did the boot prints belong to? Had a man waited inside the shed while one or both of David’s aunts pried the door open?
Who’d lock himself inside that tiny shed and hope for someone to come along and rescue him? Get your brain in gear.
It seemed more likely that someone had locked the child in the shed then left. He’d then likely returned in time to witness the door being jimmied.
The sight of a large-enough-to-hold-a-body toolbox kicked up sand in the pit of David’s stomach. With a knot in his throat, he stepped to the box, opened the lid, and peered down at its pitiful contents.
In his tenure with the police department, he’d seen some fairly hard-core murder scenes. But aspects of what he was looking at shook him worse than some of the most vicious calls he’d worked.
The careful positioning of the leg bones upon neatly folded, blood-stained fabric. The caved-in skull almost lovingly nestled on a discolored pillow. The telltale saw and knife kerfs and gouges at the joints—especially deep and numerous up and down the neck, as if the frenzied killer had symbolically removed the head over and over again.
Whoever the poor creature
had been—a woman judging by the floral fabric—she’d obviously been dead for years. Someone, most likely the murderer, had expended a huge amount of time and energy cutting her up, and arranging her pieces into an almost perfectly symmetrical mosaic.
That much anger would be hard to keep hidden. The sick feeling in David’s gut told him the little girl Jillie and one or both of his aunts might be the catalyst to set the murderer off.
He gently lowered the lid and returned to his vehicle.
The absence of his aunt Lil’s car might mean she was still out searching for her sister. But it could just as easily have meant the boot-print-man had forced Aunt Lil to use her car to transport the twins and child to another location—someplace more isolated and far removed from the Elliott house.
In his experience, fear and paranoia were constant companions to those who took another person’s life. After years of looking over his shoulder, whoever killed the woman in the shed would most likely assume the little girl and David’s aunts had discovered the skeleton. Not only would the killer need to move the body to another hiding place, he’d feel compelled to make sure there were no witnesses left behind.
David could wait for the killer to return for the body, then he could pounce for a quick arrest. But, of course, that would most likely not take place until after the killer had dealt with the child and his aunts.
Taking precious minutes to call dispatch, he reported the skeleton, the evidence he’d found of a child’s being held captive, and his aunt’s abandoned car. He described his other aunt’s car, then suggested an Amber alert for Jillie Ross. After offering physical descriptions of the three, he requested both aunts be listed as missing and suspected of being in danger.
On the off chance his aunt Lil might answer, he tried to call one last time. He wasn’t really surprised when the call went immediately to voicemail.
“Aunt Lil, if you get this, please stop the car as soon as you can safely do so and call me.” After a pause, David added, “I’m worried, Auntie. I don’t know if you’re still searching for Aunt Dix, but if you find her and the little girl, call me. Don’t approach whoever has them. This is not a person who’ll listen to reason. He has nothing to lose.” He punched the disconnect button and sat staring at his dashboard.
Based on what he knew at that point, it seemed his aunt Dix had driven from the gas station to the Elliott house. Once there, she’d been caught and taken somewhere else—either in someone else’s vehicle or in Aunt Lil’s. The surrounding desert was huge, home to places so isolated they didn’t even appear on the map. So, if Lil was taken captive with her sister and Jillie, David’s window of opportunity for finding them was rapidly closing.
But if his aunt Lil hadn’t been caught at the Elliott house, where would she have gone next? A logical and systematic thinker, she would have considered all the data, made a deduction, and then acted on it.
David was certain that wherever one of his aunts turned up, the other would be close behind. All he had to do was to put himself into one of their heads.
As if conjured by his need, Beth’s words floated into his mind. The Elliotts are vile, truly evil. They’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.
Then, as if struck by lightning, David sat bolt upright and half-shouted, “And what do they want? They want the treasure, and where do they believe the treasure is?”
He cranked the ignition, shot down the drive and out onto the road that would take him to the Ross farm.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Dix pushed her feet against the floor to lift herself off the chair to which she’d been tied. Even a few inches leeway should allow her to frog-hop the chair to the kitchen counter. Maybe she could get a drawer open and find something sharp to cut the nylon bindings.
But her calves cramped into granny knots. Pain shot through her legs, then held, so intense her eyes teared up. Tugging against her restraints, she worked her toes and moved her feet in a circular motion to loosen the muscles. Finally, after several minutes, the pain subsided.
The hinges on the screen door squealed, and Cleg entered the kitchen. His portable oxygen tank hanging under one arm, the cannula slightly askew in his nostrils, he looked like he’d just run a marathon.
Cleg stood in front of her, breathing hard, his lips a mottled purple. “You got to…wheeze…make that girl…cough…tell them where the treasure map is.”
Dix shook her head. “There is no treasure, and there is no map.”
Cleg took a step toward her, his facial expression unreadable. “That story’s not going to wash, not with those people. If the girl sticks to it, there’s no telling what they’ll do.”
As if it had been only yesterday rather than four decades since Dix studied crisis intervention strategies, her training kicked in.
“Your name’s Cleg, isn’t it?” Call him by his name.
The man nodded.
“My name’s Dixie.” Make him see you as a person with a name. “I don’t believe Jillie knows anything about a treasure. But I do know you’re unhappy about what’s happening here.” Make it personal.
His mouth tightening, Cleg looked unsure.
“Cleg, look at me.” Dix waited for him to make eye contact. “My nephew is a detective with the Los Lunas Police Department. He won’t stop searching until he finds Jillie and me. And he won’t rest until anyone who hurts either of us is in jail.”
Cleg’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I don’t see what I could do.”
“Help us, and I’ll paint a clear image of you to the police.” Reflect to the client whichever of the five senses he uses to express himself. “They’ll get the picture.”
Surprised and gratified to see a tear drop from Cleg’s downcast eyes, Dix pounced. “Your life has been tough, anyone can see that.”
A small nod.
“Cleg, you have a chance to do something good here. Will you help us?”
The man looked over his shoulder toward the door. “How?”
“Either untie me or give me something sharp to cut this rope; then, distract them. Give me the keys to your pickup, so I can get Jillie away from here.”
Cleg licked his lips. “If that woman gets wind of what I’m up to—”
“She won’t. We’ll make it look good, like I got the best of you. It won’t be your fault.”
Cleg drew in a deep breath through his cannula and pushed the air out through pursed lips. He stepped to the kitchen counter, where he opened and closed several drawers before finding one that contained what he was searching for. A thoughtful look on his face, he reached into the drawer and retrieved a butcher knife. Gripping the handle of the lethal-looking blade in one hand, he approached Dix.
“Thank you, Cleg.” Dix smiled her most winning smile as gratitude sent her spirits soaring.
Sweat beading along his upper lip, the man played the pad of his thumb lightly along the sharp edge of the knife. He turned it this way and that, staring at the light flashing along its steel blade.
“Cleg?” The beginnings of fear dug into Dix’s solar plexus. She had to interrupt his string of thought, or she was going to lose him. “Cleg, you’re doing the right thing. You’re going to be a hero.”
But Cleg remained unmoved, as if he hadn’t heard. Almost to himself, he said, “If that girl thought someone was going to hurt her friend, she’d tell them what they want to know.” Thoughtfully, the man looked back and forth between Dix and the knife. “It wouldn’t have to be really bad, just enough for the girl to know those people mean business. I mean, I don’t want to hurt anyone; I’m not a violent person.”
“Cleg—”
“Once they got hold of the treasure, they’d leave me alone.”
Dix’s breath caught in her throat and she hiccupped. Steady. “They’re all going to prison for a long time, Cleg. You’ll have years and years to do whatever you want. Years, Cleg, just think of it.”
The man stood motionless in front of Dix. Then, as if a clog suddenly slipped into place, he smile
d and raised the knife.
Dix’s eyes widened in horror as Cleg’s arm muscles bunched, ready to the bring the knife down.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Margo couldn’t believe it when the old woman and the girl showed up at the farm. She’d wanted to drag the kid from the pickup and pound her until she told them where the treasure map was hidden. Her impulse had been so strong, her fake nails punctured holes in the palms of her tightly fisted hands.
But the sight of Toby sitting in the back of the pickup he’d inherited from his mother calmed her. Even as a kid, he’d been the spitting image of his father Johnnie Dinkins—the man Margo almost married. And as a grown man, the resemblance extended beyond physical appearance to include mannerisms: The way he cocked his head when deep in thought. The way he smiled at her when she’d done something special for him.
Margo glanced at her son and ground her teeth. Except for the mouth he got from Cleg, Mort didn’t even remotely resemble either of his parents. Instead, by some perverse nastiness of the universe, he could have been Chlorine’s twin. From the moment of his birth, Margo had been unable to hold or hug him without the urge to throw him into the fireplace. So, she’d left his care to Cleg.
Of the two sisters, Chlorine had been their mother’s favorite. Whenever the sisters fought, which was often, their mother took Chlorine’s side. Whether or not Margo was guilty didn’t seem to matter. Margo was never given the opportunity to tell her side of the story before the girls’ mother yanked the horse quirt—her favorite instrument of punishment—from its nail on the wall and whipped Margo until she confessed. Chlorine, on the other hand, was rewarded for betraying her sister. Margo could still see Chlorine sitting on the porch swing licking an ice cream cone and smiling.
Margo stared at her shambling husband and remembered the days she’d spent as Johnnie’s girl all those years ago. She’d fallen so hard and fast, the rest of the world had faded into unreality. It was as if she lived and walked inside a cloud of sparkling woofle dust.