by John Evans
“Smith and Wesson .357, Model 65—K frame. Nice. You expecting bears?”
Unsure whether I was more stunned by her calm demeanor or her knowledge of guns, I stared at her for a second.
“What’s a K frame?” I finally managed.
“Sturdier than a J frame—it’s for heavier loads.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. “Can I ask you something?”
She looked over. “Sure.”
“How do you know I’m not some kind of homicidal maniac running around the woods with a gun?”
“You touched my heart,” she said and looked away.
“I touched your breast,” I corrected.
“But I felt it in my heart. You’re a good person.”
“So you’re . . . psychic?” My tone was flat, neither sarcastic nor accusatory.
She looked down as if uncertain or embarrassed then looked directly at me. “If I told you I’m psychic, you’d laugh at me. If I say I’m sensitive, you’ll chalk it up to woman’s intuition. So for now, let’s just call me perceptive.”
“Perceptive . . .”
“Yes, perceptive. You have a .357 magnum right here.” She glanced down at the revolver now visible as a shadowy outline in the instrument lights. “You feel threatened. Are you psychic?” She paused and looked into my eyes again. “Or sensitive? Or are you just perceptive?”
“Cautious,” I said, trying to suppress a smile. She was right—she was extremely perceptive.
“I knew it!” she said triumphantly as if she had won a bet. And then she laughed. It took me a moment to realize she was having fun and I joined her.
“OK, Lisa,” I said shifting from park into drive. “Where to?”
“Leeza,” she corrected, emphasizing the sound. “With a Z.”
“OK, Leeza with a Z, where to?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ve never been there. The address is on Fog Hollow Road wherever that is.”
Fog Hollow Road. I closed my eyes in disbelief. Liza Lovell was Jonah’s long lost granddaughter—the one who was handling his estate.
I pulled onto the road and drove slowly down Belhaven Road. Fog Hollow Road was a narrow lane that wound its way through the range of hills between Route 212 and Belhaven. The shortest way would be to go back up to the Crow’s Nest and drive down through the campus of Cameron Industries to 212 on “Cameron Drive,” the private road that linked my father’s properties. I didn’t need a shortcut. I needed time to absorb what was happening and all its complications.
This was the granddaughter of the man I had killed—Jonah, large yet gentle, the picture-book farmer of every story where a five year old spends summers in the country. Grandpa. And I was responsible for his loss. I looked over at Liza, knowing that this could never be made right, but certain that I’d try.
CHAPTER 35
“You’re Jonah’s granddaughter—aren’t you?”
“So now you’re psychic,” she said.
“Perceptive,” I countered. “There are only a handful of houses on Fog Hollow Road, and I know that Jonah has a granddaughter.”
I glanced over and she was nodding appreciatively, traces of a smile on her face as if she were remembering him fondly. I drove in silence for a while, not sure of what to say about my relationship with Jonah or the details of his death. She was certainly perceptive enough to sniff out a lie. I decided to deal in the truth—to a point.
“Did you know my grandfather well?” she finally said.
“I worked for him for the last few months. He was one of the good guys.”
“And he was murdered . . .” she shook her head.
It was time to change the subject.
“Look,” I said, “you’re not planning on staying there are you?”
She gave me a puzzled look. “Why not?”
“For one thing, it’s a crime scene. I think it’s locked up. And two, it’s . . .”
I paused and she filled in my blank.
“Creepy?”
“I think you’ll understand when we get there. It’s dark, lonely, and . . .”
“Creepy . . . I know.” She caught my eye and smiled. “Look, I do it all the time. It’s not creepy.”
“Do what?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Spend time alone . . . where people have died.”
I glanced over at her, studying her as long as the winding road would allow. She continued.
“I read—people, places, things . . .”
“So you are psychic.”
“Let’s leave it at sensitive.” She smiled again. “I walk around the house, pick up objects, touch what the dead touched when they were alive, feel what they felt, smell what they smelled—and it floods into me. I know them and they talk to me.”
She must have sensed my skepticism. “And I don’t mean they talk in words. They leave impressions.”
When I didn’t respond, she reached over and pulled the revolver out of the console and cradled it in both hands.
“Even in the dark, I can tell,” she said, rolling the gun over and studying the other side. “This isn’t your gun.”
I waited for her to continue—to explain, but she seemed content to torture me with a simple statement that happened to be true.
“Just an impression,” she added with a quick look in my direction.
We exchanged glances for several minutes. I challenged her with my eyes—demanding an explanation. Her stubborn silence finally caused me to break. “OK, so how do you know?”
“Am I right?” She sat up and wiggled in her seat. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it!” she said and wiggled back, getting comfortable and smug. “This gun isn’t you. This is a showpiece—probably only fired a few times, if ever. The owner spent big bucks on it. He’s the kind of guy who gets his hair cut every week—on Saturday. Has his underwear pressed and starched. That’s not you, by the way. Then, you have the gun stuck barrel-down in the console. Mr. Starchy Pants would die if he saw his gun treated that way, like a used Kleenex. And who rides around with a gun in the console? Not a criminal. A criminal sticks it under the seat—like cops never look there. Licensed gun owner? Someone who knows the law? I doubt it. You’re afraid of something—you need a gun for protection. You’re not worried about not having a permit or getting stopped by a cop.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“The car. It goes with the gun. Neither of them belongs to you. Your car probably has McDonald’s wrappers ankle deep on the floor. My grandfather couldn’t pay you enough to afford a Beamer. You’re not a criminal, so you borrowed the gun and car from some rich guy with starched underwear—your father?”
Christ, she was good. I looked over at her and she had her arms folded in complete confidence of her accuracy.
“Maybe I stole them. Maybe I’m a rapist.”
She threw her head back and let out a short burst of laughter. “I placed your hand on my heart and you acted like a seventh grader with pimples. Some rapist. Like I said, you’re a good person.”
That was nice to hear. It soothed the ache inside. Dodging a murder investigation, wondering if a man might be alive if you had done things differently, knowing that you are the cause of most of your own misery—it made a difference to have someone, even a stranger, see the good inside. I basked in the glow of that remark all the way to Jonah’s lane. I slowed and threw the high beams on the rusted mailbox so she could see “Jonah Heard” painted on the side.
Rolling down a farm lane after midnight, the woods pressing in from both sides, tires crunching on the gravel back to the “scene of the crime,” gave me the creeps. I glanced over at Liza to see if she read my mood, but she seemed to be in the same confident state of self-control. Finally, she turned toward me. “Is it far?”
“We’re almost there.” The woods opened to the orchard on the right and the fields on the left. The piles of brush were tucked back there well cloaked in darkness. The lane’s steep pitch pu
lled us toward the wooden bridge. I braked and we bumped over the boards into Jonah’s compound. A light burned somewhere in the house and I remembered the timer. But the glow inside did not radiate the cozy warmth one might expect from a light in a farmhouse. A few short weeks ago I could picture Jonah reading a newspaper, sitting by the fireplace. But now the only image I had was of Jonah lying dead in the shaft of light across the floor.
“Is someone in there?” Liza asked uncertainly.
“It’s a light on a timer,” I said pulling up to the front porch. As we stared at the drawn shades with their soft yellow glow, the light went out. Holy fuck.
I calmed myself by reasoning that a timer that was set to go on would also be set to go off—probably after midnight when most people are asleep. But still . . .
“It could have waited until we were inside,” Liza said with a touch of annoyance. To her, it seemed to be just another inconvenience in a day marked by a bad transmission and a dead cell phone.
“We may not get inside,” I said in a voice that belied my anxiety. “The last time I was here this was a crime scene.” The yellow police tape was gone. “There was a padlock on the door.” I pulled the Smith and Wesson from the console.
With the engine running and the headlights flooding the house, we got out of the car and approached the porch. A panel of plywood had been slapped over the broken windowpane of the front door and screwed to it at an angle, but the hasp and padlock were gone. There were marks where the screws had been pried out roughly with the same lack of care with which the plywood had been added.
“This isn’t good,” I said barely audibly.
“What isn’t?” Liza asked.
“The lock—it’s gone, and it looks like it was pried off.”
I had second thoughts about the timer and looked down at my gun.
“You really think you’ll need that?” Liza grabbed the doorknob and gave it a twist and a shove. The door swung inward and stopped three quarters open. We peered in, leaning to each side so the headlights could pierce the depths of the parlor with the missing chair. No one lurked in the dark corners, and Liza stepped forward pushing the door fully open. She felt along the wall until she found the switch and a small light on the end table came on, chasing away the shadows.
“There,” she said brightly. “Nice and homey.”
I glanced toward the doorway leading to Jonah’s den. The light did not penetrate into the room that was far from “nice and homey.” Liza gave the parlor a brief inspection and, seemingly charmed by the rustic warmth of her grandfather’s house, she approached the den. I watched her silently as she reached around the doorway in search of a light switch. As her fingers found it, she moved confidently through the doorway and froze when the light revealed the destruction of the room. She tensed up—took a small step backward. I placed my hand gently between her shoulder blades and guided her a few steps into the den. She resisted slightly, but moved forward nevertheless.
“This isn’t good,” she said in the same tone I had used minutes before.
For the first time, she saw the room in which her grandfather had died. The scene was still horrific with broken glass, holes in the wall, and plaster dust everywhere. I tried to soften it by explaining, “The police did most of this looking for evidence.”
“I’m not talking about the mess. It’s the house. I sense an evil presence.”
Her words froze me. My deep paranoia stepped forward. Was she referring to me?
“Are you being perceptive . . . or sensitive?”
She gave me a concerned look.
“Psychic,” she said.
CHAPTER 36
Liza took several steps and stopped in the center of the room. I held back, wondering if I was emanating some sort of signal—waves of guilt sensed through an emotional Geiger counter.
“What are you feeling?” I asked, not certain if I wanted to know the answer.
Her eyes were scanning the room, but she paused long enough to make brief eye contact.
“Did you ever have a feeling you weren’t alone? Or that you were being watched?”
I nodded that I did.
“It’s like that, but less defined. My heart is racing.”
“Then let’s leave,” I said, hoping to get away from the house and back onto neutral ground where my signal was weak and I was a good person.
“There’s nothing to fear,” she said, her voice hesitant—a hint of uncertainty.
“Why stay?” I tried a different tack.
“Because there are things to learn,” she said softly and took a few tentative steps forward and stopped. “I only met my grandfather once,” she explained. “I loved him, but never got to know him.” She adjusted her position and scanned the room, swinging her head in a slow arc that encompassed the holes blown into the wall. “This is where my grandfather stood when he fired his gun.” She was in the exact spot. “But where were they?” she whispered.
They? I wanted to believe she was asking about bullets, shell casings, the police, pictures on the wall, her grandmother’s earrings—anything but what my fears suspected.
“They?” I finally asked, my voice quaking with the dread of discovery.
“The ones he shot at. Where were they hiding?” She touched one of the padded chairs and walked around it. Her fingers slid across the hole in the back cushion and caressed the fabric until she found the exit hole on the other side. She studied the floor and her eyes went from bullet hole to bullet hole and back to the floor.
She looked at me for a long moment. “They were behind the chairs—stretched out flat.”
Her voice was barely a whisper, and her piercing eyes were accusing as if she had said, “You were behind the chairs.”
I studied her, waiting for her accusation to become vocal, but she softened and I felt that perhaps she hadn’t probed into my psyche with whatever power she may have.
“You said ‘they.’ How do you know there was more than one?” I finally asked.
“You can barely see it. In fact, it helps if you squint—blur your vision. Look at the floor behind the chairs.
I drew up next to her and did as she suggested and saw it immediately. The floor was still covered with a layer of dust that started with a rain of plaster, glass, furniture stuffing, and continued as the police sawed and drilled their way in search of evidence. More dust was kicked up and re-deposited as people walked through the scene. But behind the two chairs, there were two barely discernable spots with less dust where Dusty and I had cowered in fear, lying flat out on the floor.
“You can see that something—or someone, was on the floor while all this dust fell down. When they got up, they left silhouettes behind. The later dust almost blots it out, but you can still tell the difference.”
I was awed by her deductions—and scared.
She scanned the room again, pirouetting in the general direction of the kitchen when it hit me.
“Wait a minute. How did you know there were two? Before you saw the dust, you said, ‘Where are they?’”
“I did?” And she continued her inspection.
I did not move with her, but followed with my eyes as she stood in the archway to the kitchen. Her hand searched for the switch and I waited, listening for the soft click. When the florescent ceiling light sputtered to life, she surveyed the kitchen and paused.
“Someone’s living here,” she said in a whisper.
She was right. Someone had eaten at the kitchen table and had not cleared the dishes. A plate with a partially eaten sandwich, an open potato chip bag, beer bottles, and a serrated knife stuck into a jar of peanut butter cluttered the table.
“Looks like he left in a hurry,” Liza said quietly.
“How do you know it was a guy?”
“Who else would spread peanut butter with a serrated knife? Not to mention . . .” She paused and I followed her eyes to the floor. Something blue had been cut and broken into large chunks, something resembling asbestos ductwork. She stoop
ed and picked up a piece in each hand. “These casts are huge.”
An image exploded to life in my head—Stomp trussed up in blue casts. My fingers tightened on the gun.
“Liza, we have to leave.” I grabbed her above the elbow. She resisted, her eyes fixed on the pieces of cast. “Now!”
An engine roared and a spray of gravel rattled furiously in wheel wells. Tires locked in a brief skid in the dirt and the engine roared again as spinning tires pelted the house with more gravel. We raced to the front door in time to see the taillights of my car bounce over the bridge and disappear through the trees as the Beamer sped up Jonah’s lane.
“What’s going on?”
It was going to take several more minutes for my heart to settle down. I blew out a breath, relieved that he was gone.
“Your evil presence just stole my car,” I said.
“You know him?”
“We’ve met a few times. It’s a long story.”
I pulled out my cell phone and called the Fannett Meadow Police Department. I knew that Devereaux was probably at home in bed, so I simply reported that my father’s car had been stolen—a brand new BMW with “Cameron 1” plates. I told him that it might have been taken by Stomp Jessup and started giving a description of him. I was cut off—it wasn’t necessary. The officer at the desk asked me a few more questions and was concerned enough to ask if I needed a ride. I declined—I did not want more quality time with the police. I’d call a cab.
The good news was that Stomp had just added breaking and entering and car theft to his résumé and the police were on the hunt. The bad news was that Stomp had stumbled into my life largely by chance and error—a chance meeting in a bar, a mistaken notion that we had something to do with Stemcell’s death, the incredible coincidence of Stomp landing in the same hospital room with Dusty—and now this. Devereaux had to be wondering.
“The bastard!” Liza cried suddenly. “He has my suitcases—my purse!”
“And my car,” I added.