Louisa stood and pulled the blanket from Audrey’s legs. The girl scooted herself to the edge of the seat, placed her feet on the ground, one at a time, and pushed up, as if standing on stilts for the first time. Mrs. Haversly was still going on, but Jim heard only the rhythm of her voice, no distinct words. Audrey stood on wobbly, bent legs at first then steadied herself. She looked at Louisa with wide eyes, and Louisa smiled and nodded. Like a newborn foal on untested legs, Audrey took one step then two then three. With each step her eyes and smile grew wider.
From the group of children by the corner of the building one of the girls screamed, “Mrs. Kellam! Audrey!”
Chapter 26
BEFORE JIM EVEN heard the car door open and shut, before he heard the knock on his front door, he knew who the visitor was. He’d been expecting him.
After the incident at Virginia Mills Elementary School—the miracle—he’d swept Louisa from the chaos and rushed her back to his home. He still couldn’t believe the signals his own eyes had sent to his brain. The girl, the invalid, Audrey, had walked. She’d stood on her own two legs and walked. Mrs. Haversly said she hadn’t walked ever, not one step, went right from the stroller to the wheelchair. Muscular dystrophy had ravaged her muscles and twisted her legs into unusable appendages. But she’d walked today. Oh, did she walk, laughing and smiling the whole time.
On the way home Jim kept asking Louisa what she’d done, how she’d healed Audrey, but the girl seemed to have no idea, kept saying she just prayed for her, that’s all. She felt bad for Audrey, for the way her legs looked, the way they wouldn’t work properly, so she prayed that God would give her legs strength.
When the knock came on the door, Jim’s head was still spinning, his palms still sweaty. He’d heard about this kind of thing happening, but usually it was in some tent meeting in Florida and a sweaty, double-breasted suit was pacing the stage, waving his arms, and hollering for people to come forward and be healed, be healed, “be HEALED, I tell ya, in the name of a-Jaysus, be healed!” He heard of people going forward claiming a healing, maybe even walking on shaky legs a few steps, but reports were that it mostly didn’t last. A surge of adrenaline, the power of persuasion, wishful thinking—whatever it was—gave the poor victim a temporary healing, a moment of freedom from his affliction, before sending him back into that dark dungeon a few short days or weeks later.
But this was different. He had no scientific or medical reason to think so, but Jim knew, just knew. Audrey’s healing was complete; the girl could walk and would walk for the rest of her life.
The knock came again, and Jim knew who it was: Chief Miller, come calling to ask what all the hubbub at the school was about.
Jim looked at Louisa, sitting on the sofa, and smiled. “It’ll be all right.”
Amy was gone when they’d arrived home, and Jim purposely did not call her cell phone and fill her in on the events that had transpired. He’d rather tell her in person.
He stood and crossed the room, opened the door.
“Afternoon, Jim,” Miller said. “Mind if I come in?”
“I’d act like I didn’t know why you were here if I thought you’d buy it.”
“But we all know why I’m here.”
Jim opened the door wider and allowed Miller to enter. “Have a seat. We’ve been expecting you.”
“I suppose you have.” He smiled at Louisa. “Hello, Louisa. How are you?”
The girl smiled back. “Just fine, Chief.”
Miller sat in the wingback chair and interlaced his fingers. “I was just at the Murphys’ house. They’d just gotten back from taking Audrey to the doctor.”
Neither Jim nor Louisa said a word. An uneasy feeling that felt a lot like guilt sat in Jim’s gut, and he didn’t like it. They’d done nothing wrong. Louisa had done nothing wrong. Praying for someone was not a crime. Healing someone was not a crime. It was a gift, a great, precious gift. Audrey’s life would never be the same. A world of opportunity now awaited her.
Miller smoothed his mustache. “Mrs. Murphy said Doc Adams nearly fell over when he saw Audrey walk into the exam room.”
“I bet he did.”
“Said he couldn’t explain it, but she seemed to be cured. I don’t need to tell you that muscular dystrophy doesn’t just go away.”
“No, you don’t. I’m too familiar with it,” Jim said. When he was a kid, his cousin had muscular dystrophy. He’d died of respiratory failure at the age of nineteen, a slow, progressive death. “There’s no cure.”
“And yet we have Audrey here. Cured.”
“Do you believe in faith healing?”
“You mean the laying on hands and speaking in tongues type?”
“Not exactly, but something like that.”
Miller shrugged. “If you would have asked me that question yesterday, I would have told you no, that it’s a bunch of hype. But now I’m not sure what to think.”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
They all sat and looked at each other for a few long uncomfortable moments. Finally, Miller stroked his mustache and said, “What’s your side of the story, Louisa?”
Louisa shifted in her chair but never took her eyes, those brilliant blue eyes, from Miller. “I felt sorry for her, so I prayed for her.”
Miller glanced at Jim than back to Louisa. “You prayed for her. That’s it.”
“Sure.” She said it like there couldn’t possibly be another explanation. Like praying for someone and then having that prayer answered instantaneously was the most common thing in the world, like she could pray for gold to fall from the sky and moments later the heavens would open and all the gold in Fort Knox would come plummeting down.
“And then Audrey just got up and walked,” Miller said.
“She didn’t need the wheelchair anymore.”
“No, I suppose she didn’t.”
As if she sensed there was still some disbelief in Miller, she said, “With God anything is possible, Chief.”
Miller tented his hands in front of his face. “I’m almost ready to believe that.”
“So what happens now?” Jim said, still wrestling with that inexplicable feeling of guilt.
“Nothing. The Murphys are ecstatic. Audrey is giddy with joy, can’t stop walking, even tried running outside.”
“But . . . ” Jim knew there was more to Miller’s visit than just wanting to hear Louisa’s side of the story. Why did her account even matter? Audrey’s walking, even running, was proof enough.
Miller stood, smoothed his shirt. “The Murphys would like to keep this quiet, and frankly I agree.”
“Gonna be kind of hard to keep it quiet, isn’t it? People are going to notice something’s different about Audrey. Then there’s all the children at the school, the teachers.”
“I know. Some we can’t do anything about. But let’s not go announcing to the world that we have a faith healer in our presence.” He winked at Louisa. “Huh, kiddo? You know how folks can be. Before long we’ll have pandemonium on our hands. People camping out on your lawn waiting for the miracle child to exit the house. We’ll do our part to downplay it as much as possible, at least try to keep it contained. And you two, maybe just lay low for a couple days, huh?”
Jim winked at Louisa and smiled. “We can do that.”
Chapter 27
HAILEY’S TRUCK STOP and Wayside Diner was an oasis of sodium and fluorescent lights along a dark and barren stretch of Interstate 81. Built in the 1970s, it hadn’t changed much. The owners, Deb and Wayne Hailey, put little money back into their business, but the long-haul truckers and hungry locals who stopped there didn’t seem to mind. The man—Mitch Albright—had eaten there twice, and both times his intestines had rebelled in a most unpleasant way. He would not set foot in the diner this time; that’s not why he was here. He’d driven the five miles from Virginia Mills for two reasons: One, to fill his new vehicle, an unclaimed Explorer he’d pulled from the impound lot,
with gas. And two, to teach Clint Efforts some respect.
Efforts was an over-the-road trucker who’d become a regular at Hailey’s, stopping there for dinner, sleep, and a chance to use his big mouth on his way from Savannah, Georgia, to Bangor, Maine, and back again. He made the trip once a week, stopping at Hailey’s two times. Mitch and Efforts had crossed paths a couple times, and each encounter had proved that Efforts was a blowhard know-it-all who didn’t respect anyone.
That was about to change.
The Wayside Diner, which sat adjacent to the truck stop, was wrapped in filmy plate-glass windows. Inside, the turquoise and white décor, the paneled walls, and the off-white linoleum were outdated, but for a place like Hailey’s it remained acceptable. Efforts was in there, jawing away to the waitress, a thin-as-a-broom, attractive brunette who couldn’t have been more than twenty. Efforts probably thought he was hitting on her, impressing her with his stories of the open road, life in a big rig. Mitch had heard Efforts had a wife and kids in Georgia but rarely saw them. Didn’t respect his family either.
Mitch pulled the Explorer around the back of the diner to the gas pumps, filled the tank, paid with cash in the little convenience store, then parked where he could keep an eye on Efforts. He left the SUV running and heat flowing. When the sun dipped behind the horizon and darkness moved in, the temperature had plummeted into the forties.
A little after eleven Efforts finally finished his meal and attempts to woo the young waitress, dropped some money on the table, paid for his food at the register, and left the diner. Mitch watched with keen interest as the middle-aged trucker walked across the asphalt lot to where the rigs were parked. A line of them sat along the far end of the lot, parking lights glowing, generators humming, chrome glistening like polished silver under the dull sodium vapor light from the parking lot lamps. Inside each one a long-haul trucker took his mandatory six hours of rest before heading out again.
Efforts walked up to his blue and white International, picked at his teeth with a toothpick, glanced back at the diner as if waiting for the cute waitress to follow him to his cab, then turned his face toward the night sky. Mitch wondered what the bearded man was thinking, what thoughts of grandeur were swirling through his self-absorbed mind. A minute later Efforts looked back at the diner again then swung the driver’s side door open and stepped up and into the truck, which had an extended cab, one of those jobs with a bed in the back. He sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, and Mitch wondered if he’d fire up the engine and pull out, but then he disappeared into the back.
Mitch waited, studied the other rigs to make sure no other truckers were watching, then shut off the Explorer’s engine. He held tight another five minutes, during which time a couple exited the diner and, holding hands and laughing, made their way to their car. When all was clear, Mitch stepped out of the Explorer and stole through the darkness to where the rigs were parked. The moon, darkened by a cloak of heavy cloud cover that had recently moved over the area, reflected little light, so the bulk of illumination came from the lot lamps. Mitch made sure to stay where the darkness was thickest and he was most concealed. He didn’t need any do-gooder placing him at the scene of the crime at the time of death.
Where the rigs were parked, Mitch dashed to the rear of the trailers and crept from shadow to shadow. To his right were the trucks, seven in all; to his left was an open area of marshland and, beyond that, woods that covered the land for nearly a mile in each direction.
He came to Efforts’s trailer and stopped. He’d have to get the trucker out of the rig somehow without causing too much of a disturbance. From his coat pocket he pulled a rolled-up ball cap and pulled it down tight on his head. Even if a neighboring trucker did hear people talking and look out a window, with the cap on and shadows between the trucks, it would be impossible to identify Mitch.
Mitch casually made his way along the length of the trailer to the rig, checked to make sure the knife was secure in his belt, and knocked on the door of the cab. Seconds later Efforts appeared. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, no shoes.
“Yeah?” He did not look happy to see Mitch.
“Evening.” Mitch kept his head low and pointed to his left. “There’s something on the rear of your trailer you should see.”
“What? What’s this about?”
“I was driving by and noticed it; you have to see it for yourself.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“You really should see it now. You can’t be on the road like this.”
“Like what?”
“Your tires are unsafe.”
“What’s wrong with ’em?”
“You really should see for yourself.”
Grumbling, Efforts slid to the back of the rig and a minute later reappeared with sneakers on. Climbing down from the cab, he said, “This better be good.”
Mitch led the way to the rear of the trailer. Now they were out of view of any other driver or patron of the Wayside Diner. “Here.” He bent low and pointed under the trailer to the inside rear tires. “See for yourself and tell me what you think.”
Efforts pulled a flashlight from his shirt pocket and clicked it on. Bending at the waist, he pointed the light under the trailer. “What are you lookin’ at? They’re fine.” He said it as though he thought Mitch to be an idiot, a blind idiot who didn’t know the first thing about tires.
Reaching behind his back and feeling for the handle of the knife, Mitch said, “You don’t see the inside tread?”
But before Efforts could answer, Mitch drove the knife just below the trucker’s right shoulder blade, catching the lung and piercing it. With little more than a grunt Efforts jerked up in a spasmodic motion then collapsed to the asphalt. The flashlight dropped from his hand and rolled in an arc under the trailer. It came to rest with the beam on Efforts, a glowing solitary eye to witness the gruesome event.
Lying on his stomach, Efforts struggled for breath and tried to move. His body twitched and writhed. Mitch rolled the trucker over and stood over him. Efforts’s mouth opened and closed like a fish taken from water and unable to pull air through its gills. His eyes were blazing and frantic. Mitch knelt beside him and put the knife to Efforts’s throat. In the trucker’s eyes he found what he had come for: respect. Satisfied that he’d accomplished his task, Mitch dragged the blade of the knife across the soft skin of Efforts’s neck, taking what life was left.
With the temperature determined to dip over night, time of death would be difficult to predict.
Chapter 28
CHIEF DOUG MILLER sat at his kitchen table and sipped his coffee. He usually scanned the morning paper with his coffee, but this morning he had other things on his mind: little girls with no history and murdered bullies with too much history. His cell phone chimed, and he answered it on the second ring. It was Amber Steerwell, the department’s morning dispatch officer.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Amber, my morning is starting out on the fair end of okay, and I’m enjoying a very good cup of coffee. If this is gonna ruin that, I hope it can at least wait ’til I get in the office.”
She hesitated. “It can’t wait, sir.”
Doug sighed and took another sip of coffee. “Okay, what’d’ya got?”
“Another murder.”
He put the coffee mug down so hard some splashed out and over the edge, puddling around the base. The coffee didn’t taste so good anymore. “Who?”
“Clint Efforts, truck driver from Savannah.”
“Where?”
“Hailey’s. Out on 81.”
“I know where Hailey’s is.”
Doug closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. A dull ache had started behind his eyes.
“Sir?”
Keeping his eyes closed, he said, “What is it, Amber?”
“The coroner is en route and would like you to meet him there.”
“Any officers on the scene?”
“Peevey, sir.”
“Peevey. Yeah, okay.
Tell ’em I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“And sir?”
“Yes, Amber.”
“Sorry to ruin your morning.”
“And my coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”
He clicked off the phone and slipped it back into its belt holder. Another murder. Doug shook his head, picked up the mug, and drained the rest of the coffee in two swallows. It was lukewarm and bitter.
Grabbing his coat from the hook by the door, he left the house and climbed into his pickup. Hailey’s was only fifteen minutes away, but first he’d stop at the gas station down the road and get a new coffee.
When he arrived at Hailey’s, Frizetti was already there, talking to Peevey. A couple officers from the county’s crime lab were there as well, snapping pictures and scanning the area for evidence. And Jackie Hale, the newspaper reporter, was there, hands in her pockets, standing by the police tape.
Frizetti met Doug at the truck, a coffee in one hand, a sandwich in the other.
“What’d’ya got, Jer?”
“Sausage and egg biscuit. Want a bite?”
Doug stared at him. “I mean with the body. Any connection to Cousins?”
“Follow me.”
Hale stepped in front of Doug. “I’ll have some questions for you when you’re through, Chief.”
“I have no doubt,” Doug said, walking past her.
They went to where the body lay, behind the trailer of a big rig. It was a cold morning, and ribbons of steam rose from Doug’s coffee. He sipped it slowly.
Frizetti wrapped his sandwich back in its paper and shoved the remains into his coat pocket. He squatted next to the body and lifted the shirt. “Look familiar?”
There, carved into the chest with the edge of a blade, was the letter E.
“Great,” Doug said. “We got a wacko playing a game. Is this how he died?”
“Nope,” Frizetti said, standing. “Stab wound in the back, just below the shoulder blade. I’m guessing it caught the lung. Then this.” He tilted the chin upward, revealing a deep gash running from one angle of the jaw to the other.
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