She climbed into the truck, the familiar smells of Obsession and cigarettes tantalizing him. “Hey.”
“God, you smell good,” he said.
She grinned. “Have any problems getting away?”
“Piece of cake.” Leaning close, he kissed her, using his tongue. “What about you?”
“Nope.” She extricated her mouth from his. “You bring beer?”
“A joint, too.” He dug the pot from his pocket, checked the rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb.
“This is going to be great,” she said, and produced a lighter.
They were midway through the joint when he turned the pickup into the driveway of the Huffman farm. The house had been vacant since the old man died a year ago. There was no electricity. No running water. No one around for miles. The perfect place for a Tuesday morning tryst.
Parking at the back of the house, Ronnie gathered the blanket and heater and climbed out. Jess grabbed the beer and radio, and slid from the seat. “You sure no one will bother us?”
“Are you kidding?” He took her hand. “Look at this place.”
They took the concrete steps to the back door and let themselves inside. The kitchen offered dingy white walls, chipped tile counters and a peeling linoleum floor. A rusty hot water heater squatted in the corner.
“No wonder nobody comes here,” Jess said. “This place is spooky.” Flipping on the radio, she popped the tab on a beer and walked into the living room. Tall windows dressed in dirty lace looked out over a bleak and snowy landscape. “What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
Ronnie came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Not me, babe. I showered.” He nibbled her earlobe. “C’mere.”
Turning, Jess raised her mouth to his. Ronnie kissed her deeply. Fever rose in his body. Working his hand beneath her coat, he squeezed her breast. All he could think was that there were too many layers of clothing separating them.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he whispered.
They crossed the living room to the hall. Ronnie wondered if he should tell her he loved her before or afterward. He wondered if she’d think he was an idiot, or if she’d say the same words . . .
Four doors with old-fashioned knobs lined the narrow hall. The stench was worse here. “Smells like a dead rat,” Ronnie said.
“Or a dead skunk.” Jess chugged her beer.
He was keenly aware of her hand in his. The marijuana buzz mellow in his head. His erection pressing against his fly. Squeezing her hand, he shoved open the door.
Jess’s scream rattled his brain. She scrambled back. “Ohmigod!” Her beer clattered to the floor, spewing foam. Turning, she clawed past him like a cat fighting its way out of a bag.
Ronnie looked in. Something vaguely human hung suspended from the ceiling. He saw greenish-brown skin. A horribly bloated abdomen. Blonde hair hanging down. An ocean of black blood. In the back of his mind he remembered his dad talking about a murder. Ronnie hadn’t paid attention. Now, he wished he had.
“Oh God!” Jess gripped his arm, her fingers digging into his skin right through his coat. “Let’s get out of here!”
Ronnie stumbled back. The beer he’d drunk rushed into his mouth and he vomited. Wiping his mouth, he tugged his cell phone from its case.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Jess whimpered.
“Calling the cops,” he said. “Something really bad happened here.”
The Painters Mill City Building is located on South Street just off the traffic circle. The two-story brick structure was built in 1901 and has been renovated a dozen times since. It housed the post office back in the 1950s. The elementary school in the 1960s. The town council moved in after the fire in 1985. You can get city permits here, attend council meetings and pay for traffic tickets. One-stop shopping.
I’m hopelessly disheveled from my tussle with Scott Brower, and ten minutes late because of the paperwork involved with his arrest. I brush at the bloodstains on my uniform as I go through the double doors. The bridge of my nose aches as I take the elevator to the second level and make my way to the town council meeting room. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door.
Seven people sit at a cherry wood conference table. All eyes sweep to me when I enter. The elder councilman, Norm Johnston, sits at the head of the table like a king feeding biscuits to his group of lapdogs. Beside him, Mayor Auggie Brock loads cream cheese onto a bagel. The other faces are familiar, too. Dick Blankenship farms soybeans and corn. Bruce Jackson owns a tree nursery on the edge of town. Ron Zelinski is a retired factory worker. Neil Stubblefield teaches high school algebra and coaches the football team. Janine Fourman is the only woman, but from my perspective she’s more dangerous to me than all the men combined. The owner of several tourist shops, she’s persuasive, pushy, and has a mouth as big as her hair. In Janine’s world, it’s all about Janine and everyone else be damned.
Sighing, I glance out the frosted window where the bare branches of the sycamore tree shiver in the cold. I find myself wishing I were outside where it’s warmer.
“Chief Burkholder.” Norm Johnston stands.
Everyone in the room is staring at me. Probably more interested in how I got a black eye and bloodstains on my coat than the business at hand.
Auggie Brock pulls out the only empty chair. “Are you all right, Kate?”
“I’m fine.” My eyes find Norm. “I don’t have much time so you might want to get things rolling.”
The senior councilman looks around as if to say, See? I told you she’s not very cooperative. “First of all, we’d like a report on how the murder investigation is progressing.”
I hold his gaze. “All departmental resources are focused on this case. My officers are on mandatory overtime. We’re working around the clock. We’re also utilizing the BCI lab and several law enforcement databases.”
Janine interjects. “Do you have a suspect?”
“No.” I give her my full attention. “We’re only thirty-two hours into the case.”
“I heard you arrested Scott Brower,” Norm says.
Once again I’m amazed at the speed of the grapevine in this town. “He’s a person of interest.”
Norm Johnson rolls his eyes. “Does that mean he’s a suspect?”
With as little fanfare as possible, I relay the details of Brower’s arrest.
Janine Fourman stands. “Chief Burkholder. This town can’t afford to lose its tourists. If people don’t shop here, they’ll go to Lancaster County. Do you realize how long and hard we’ve worked to get Painters Mill on the tourism map?” She looks around for the support of her counterparts, all of whom are nodding like mindless bobbleheads. “Protecting the citizens of Painters Mill also extends to providing them with a stable economy.”
Norm Johnston raises both hands, a symphony conductor quieting his orchestra. “Kate, we know your resources are limited due to budget and manpower constraints. Frankly, we’re not convinced you have the . . . experience to deal with such a difficult case.”
The words vibrate inside me like a tuning fork against a broken bone. I’d known this moment was coming. Still, the punch of shock is powerful enough to tie my stomach into knots.
Janine’s eyes glint like a rat that’s just stolen the cheese without getting crushed. “Don’t take this personally, but we’ve brought in outside help.”
I stand there, my heart pounding, sweat pooling beneath my arms. Dread is a block of ice in my gut. All I can think is that I’ve lost control of the case. “What are you talking about?”
As if on cue I hear the door behind me click open. I turn to see a tall, darkhaired man enter the room. The long, black coat tells me he’s not from around here. I wonder briefly if he’s press, but when I look into his eyes, I know he’s a cop.
For a moment I feel stripped bare, as if every emotion banging around inside me is visible. Vaguely, I wonder which agency he’s with. The conservative suit hints at FBI, but I know he could also be with the st
ate. Neither is good news.
“Kate.” The mayor pushes away from his bagel and rises. “This is Agent John Tomasetti with BCI.”
I make no move to approach him or shake his hand.
Flushing, the mayor turns his attention to the man. “Agent Tomasetti, this is our Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.”
His gaze is level as he crosses to me. I notice several things about him at once. His eyes are as dark and hard as black granite, beneath heavy brows. He’s got a poker face; his expression is impossible to read. I guess him to be about forty years old. He’s looking at me as if I’m some stand-up comic whose jokes are falling flat. I don’t want him here and he knows it. But there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, and that lack of control brings a hard rush of anxiety.
“Chief Burkholder.” He extends his hand. “It sounds like you have your hands full.”
I accept the handshake. His palm is warm, dry and slightly rough. His grip is substantial, but not too tight. “It’s been a tough case,” I hear myself say.
He’s got a black carry-on slung over his shoulder, and I realize he’s just arrived in town. At this point, I should thank him for being here and offer to drive him to the station. Once there I would introduce him to the team and brief him on the case. Afterward, in keeping with cop etiquette, I’d probably take him out for dinner, some politically incorrect jokes and war stories, and a few too many drinks. I know it’s petty, unprofessional and self-defeating, but I’m not going to do any of those things.
“I’m here to assist any way I can,” he offers.
“I’m sure the council appreciates that.”
A ghost of a smile whispers across his face.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Extricating my hand from his, I turn and start toward the door. My heart pounds like a piston as I yank it open. I can’t quiet the little voice telling me I handled that all wrong. I should have been more diplomatic. More professional. I should have kept my cool.
Someone calls out to me, but I don’t stop. I’m too angry to be reasonable. Most of that anger is directed at myself. I shouldn’t have let this happen. The truth of the matter is I should have already requested assistance from another agency.
In the hall, I stride to the elevator and slam my fist down on the button. I don’t wait for the car to arrive. I’m heading toward the stairs when I hear my name. I turn to see Auggie striding toward me. “Kate! Wait!”
I don’t want to talk to him, but I can’t run away from this. I stop and watch him approach.
“I’m sorry about what happened in there.” His expression reminds me of a little dog that has just pissed on the floor and knows he’s about to be punished.
“Were you part of it?” My statement requires no explanation.
“Look, I know you didn’t want to call in BCI just yet, but—”
“A heads-up would have been nice, Auggie.”
He flushes darkly. “Kate, it was out of my hands.”
My temper is lit, but this isn’t the time or place for a political coup. The damage has been done. Besides, I have a much more dangerous beast to slay.
Glancing toward the chambers, he lowers his voice. “Watch Norm,” he says. “He’s after you.”
My cell phone trills, but I ignore it. “Maybe that’s because I caught him driving drunk and arrested him.”
“He’s going to get the sheriff’s office involved, too, Kate.”
Bastard, I think and tug the phone from my belt. “What?” “Chief!” Mona’s voice is high and tight. “I just got a call from Bob Stedt’s boy. Him and his girlfriend found a dead body out at the old Huffman place.”
The words turn my blood to ice water. I look at Auggie, who’s staring at me with an odd mix of concern and alarm on his face.
“Call Glock.” I turn away from Auggie, wishing I’d run from the building when I had the chance. “Tell him to meet me there. Tell those kids to get in their vehicle and lock the doors. Tell them not to touch anything. Tell them not to leave the scene, unless they’re in danger. Get ahold of Doc Coblentz and tell him to stand by. I’m on my way.”
My hand shakes as I shove the cell into its nest. I look at Auggie. I feel sick inside, like I’ve done something terrible.
“What happened?” The pale cast to his complexion tells me he already knows.
“We’ve got another body.” Yanking open the stairwell door, I rush down the steps.
CHAPTER 14
Death is a terrible thing, but murder is worse. No matter how many times I see it, the ugliness and senselessness of it frighten me on some primal level. My speedometer hits eighty miles per hour on the highway, but I slow to a reasonable speed once I reach Thigpen Road because it’s slick with snow. The Huffman place is down a short lane and surrounded by skeletal trees, like bony fingers holding the place together.
I turn the Explorer in to the driveway and follow the tire tracks to the rear of the house. Ronnie Stedt and a teenaged girl I don’t recognize huddle inside a pickup truck.
Jamming the Explorer into Park, I swing open the door. The kids disembark and rush toward me.
“What happened?” I ask.
Stedt’s face is the color of paste. His eyes are glassy. He stops a couple of feet away and I smell vomit. “There’s a dead person inside.”
I look at the female. Her cheeks are bright red and streaked with mascara. She looks a lot tougher than Ronnie Stedt. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“J-Jess Hardiman.”
“Is there anyone else in the house?” I slide my .38 from its holster.
“Just the . . . body.”
“Where?”
“B-bedroom.”
“Stay here. If you see something or get scared, get in the truck and hit the horn, okay?”
Both heads bob.
I jog to the back door and shove it open. The house smells of death and marijuana. An old Led Zeppelin song blares from a radio on the counter. My nerves crawl like worms beneath my skin. Fear runs thick in my veins as I enter the living room. I don’t think there’s anyone in the house. But I’m afraid of what waits ahead.
I move into the hall. It’s narrow and dark. The smell is stronger here. Blood and feces laced with the underlying stench of putrefaction. I sidestep a puddle of vomit. To my left, the bedroom door stands open. I don’t want to look, but I can’t stop. I see a horribly bloated corpse. Brown skin stretched impossibly tight. Hair matted and hanging down. Breasts drooping like wrinkled fruit. Ankles bound and chained to a beam in the ceiling. Black feet. A wet, black tongue protruding between swollen lips.
A sound escapes me as I stumble backward into the hall. My breaths come shallow and fast. My stomach roils, and my mouth fills with bile. Footsteps sound behind me. I swing around, my gun rising.
Glock halts, his hands come up. “Jesus Christ, it’s me.”
“Goddamnit.” I lower my weapon. “I almost plugged you.”
His gaze flicks down the hall. “Scene clear?”
I shake my head because I can’t find my voice. I’m dangerously close to throwing up.
He moves past me and peers into the bedroom. “Holy hell.”
While Glock clears the rest of the house, I struggle to pull myself together. By the time he meets me in the hall, I have my cop’s coat of armor back in place.
“It’s clear,” he says.
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, as if he thinks I’m going to lose it. “Damn it, Glock, I should have asked Detrick to assist,” I manage. “I should have formed a task force.”
“Even if you had, it wouldn’t have prevented this. She’s been there a while. Fuckin’ hindsight.”
I walk into the living room. Behind me I hear him speaking into his radio. Through the kitchen window, I see Ronnie Stedt and his girlfriend standing where I left them.
Glock comes up beside me. “Pickles and Skid are on the way.”
I nod toward the teenagers. “We need to talk to them. I’ll take the Stedt boy.”
“Chick looks tough.”
“You’re tougher.”
“I’m a Marine,” he says, as if that explains everything.
I go through the back door and approach Ronnie Stedt. The air smells incredibly clean and I gulp it like water. He looks at me, then quickly glances away. “Come here,” I say.
Glock ushers the girl toward his cruiser. Ronnie watches them walk away and gets a scared-little-boy look on his face.
“You okay?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I never seen anything like that in my life.”
I motion toward the Explorer. “Let’s get out of the cold.”
Casting a final glance at his girlfriend, he trails me to the Explorer. I put him in the passenger seat, then climb behind the wheel. “You need a smoke?” I ask.
“I don’t smoke.” He heaves a sigh. “Cigarettes, anyway.”
“I’m going to let you slide on the pot.”
“Thanks.”
I start the engine and turn on the heater. “What were you doing here?”
“Nothin’.”
I make eye contact, but he looks away. “You’re not in any trouble,” I say. “I just need to know how you found that body.”
Looking thoroughly busted, he shakes his head. “We skipped school. We were just going to hang out.” He shrugs. “I can’t believe this happened.”
“Was there anyone here when you arrived?” I ask.
“No.”
“Did you touch anything? Move anything?”
“We just walked in. Drank a beer. Then we saw that . . . thing in the bedroom. Jesus . . .”
Their level of shock and genuine fear indicates these kids had nothing to do with what happened. “Do your folks know you’re here?”
He shakes his head. “My dad’s going to kill me.”
“I’ll leave the explaining up to you.” I see a cell phone clipped to his belt. “You need to call them right now.”
Sighing, he reaches for his phone.
I dial Doc Coblentz’s number from memory. “We need you out at the Huffman place on Thigpen Road,” I say.
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