by Tim Waggoner
“A little.” She answered in a soft voice and lowered her gaze to the floor. No longer was she a self-assured woman in her early twenties. She was the recalcitrant little girl he’d disciplined so many times over the years. He didn’t want to discipline her now, though. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her and tell her it was all right, everything was going to work out, he’d see to it. But he couldn’t bring himself to bridge the emotional gap between them. He wished Charlotte was here. Lenora’s mother had been so much better at serving their daughter’s emotional needs than he ever could be.
Lenora went on. “Ray didn’t want to go to the Deveraux Farm, so I gave him a push to make him take me. Nothing major.” She raised her head and met Marshall’s gaze once more. She smiled weakly. “It didn’t take a lot to convince him. It’s not like I need to do much pushing to get boys to do what I want, you know?”
Marshall did. Lenora was heartbreakingly beautiful, just like her mother.
“I doubt your push had anything to do with Ray’s murder. It’s possible the boy’s judgment might’ve been clouded, his reaction time slowed a bit, but as you said, nothing major. I’m more concerned with why you chose to go to the Deveraux Farm. It seems like quite a coincidence, given how Ray was killed — and what happened at the Caffeine Café before that.”
“No reason. I’d never been there before. That’s where normal girls go to park with boys. I guess I just wanted to see what it was like to be like everyone else. At least for one night.”
“But you’re not like everyone else, you’re — ”
“A Cross. I know. It’s not like anyone ever lets me forget it. But if you want the truth, being royalty can get pretty goddamned boring. I don’t need to go to college because I’ll never need to work to support myself. I don’t have anywhere to go or anything to do, except be rich and powerful.”
“There’s much more to being a Cross than that, and you know it. We have responsibilities.” He thought once more of the small stone icon in his jacket pocket. “Important ones.”
“Maybe so. But why should that mean we can’t have lives of our own as well?” She paused, then asked, “Will I need to speak with the sheriff?”
Marshall understood what his daughter was really asking. Are you going to take care of this? Will you protect me?
“Joanne will discover that you … took a ride with the boy sooner or later. You met him in public. Someone likely recognized you.” Left unspoken was the reason — because she was his daughter. “I’ll speak with Joanne, but the least she’ll want you to do is give a statement. I’ll try to convince her to come here to take it, though. To save you the discomfort of going into town.”
Lenora’s lips pursed in an expression that came dangerously close to a sneer. “To save you embarrassment, you mean.”
Marshall decided to let that pass, primarily because there was more than a modicum of truth to it.
Lenora looked down at her empty glass. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I need a refill.”
She walked past Marshall and out of the solarium. He stood alone, listening to the waterfall and the birds as he thought. It was several moments before he realized that not only hadn’t Lenora reacted when he’d mentioned what had happened at the Caffeine Café, she hadn’t asked him to supply any details. He supposed it was possible that news of the break-in and vandalism had spread through town and reached Sanctity by now. Cross County was big, but it wasn’t that big.
Maybe he should give Ronnie a call, though. To buy a little insurance, just in case.
• • •
After dinner, Marshall entered a special room on Sanctity’s upper floor. The door was locked and only two people had keys: Marshall and his mother. He unlocked the door, entered, and locked it behind him. He crossed the room, which was empty of furniture or decoration of any sort, and stopped before an elevator. He used another key to activate it, and when the door opened he stepped inside. The interior was padded with black leather, and there was only a single unmarked button on the control panel. Marshall pressed the button, the door closed, and he felt the elevator smoothly begin its descent. He then reached into his suit jacket and removed the warm stone figurine he’d carried since his second visit to the coroner’s office.
He didn’t know what role his family might or might not have played in Ray Porter’s death, but if there was even a chance the family had something to do with his death, Marshall’s duty was clear.
He looked down at the icon nestled in his palm.
“On behalf of my family, I apologize,” he whispered.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Marshall stepped out. Motion-detection sensors caused a light to come on overhead, illuminating a row of small motorized carts. Marshall chose one, climbed in, pressed a button to activate the engine, and then turned on the headlights. The cart hummed as he drove down a narrow tunnel, bearing the spirit of Ray Porter to its final resting place.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Barrow Hill Mound is one of the major prehistoric Native American features in Ohio. The largest conical-shaped earthwork of its kind in the state, it measures more than eighty feet in height. Archeologists believe the mound was created by the Nadana Indians around 1000 BC. The origin of these advanced people is unknown, but they lived in the Southern Ohio region until about 400 AD, when all traces of their culture disappeared.
The Nadana were the first Indians in the area to domesticate certain food plants and create what, for the time, were sophisticated works of art. They lived in permanent settlements on the shore of what is now called Lake Hush. The Nadana are believed to have developed intricate and elaborate death ceremonies during which they interred their dead within an earthen mound which expanded in size as their culture developed.
Barrow Hill Mound Park is open to the public during daylight hours throughout the year. Picnic facilities are available.
• • •
“I don’t think we’re allowed to climb it, Sarah.”
“C’mon, Jo!” A ten-year-old girl with short black hair and skin so white it almost gleamed like ivory let out a laugh that was half joyful, half snotty. “Don’t be such a chicken!”
The two girls stood at the base of Barrow Hill, bikes lying on the grass behind them on the other side of the metal railing that encircled the huge grass-covered mound. Joanne had reluctant to climb over the railing, even to placate the girl who was the only person to stay friends with her after her disappearance. Almost a year had passed since Mr. Ramsey had carried her out of the woods, but kids still made fun of her, called her names like Milk Carton Face and Invisible Girl. That was hard enough, but some children — and some adults — acted scared of her, as if they sensed she’d somehow changed during the six days she was missing. Even her own mom and dad acted different around her. They were still nice, but they didn’t touch her very often anymore and tried to avoid standing too close to her, as if whatever had happened to her might be contagious.
So maybe Sarah Rodgers was a brat sometimes, and maybe she was too eager to get both of them in trouble whenever the chance arose. But Sarah was her only friend, and that made her Joanne’s best friend, and Joanne was determined to keep it that way — no matter what she had to do. But climbing up the mound …
She wasn’t sure why, but she knew there was something wrong about it, something other than the REMAIN BEHIND THE RAILING AT ALL TIMES sign.
It was early April, jacket weather, and a light breeze was blowing through the park. There were no trees near the mound. A metal plaque welded to the railing gave an overview of the mound’s history, and from reading it, Joanne knew the trees had been cleared when the park was established in 1932. But she couldn’t shake the strange notion that the real reason there were no trees was because that nothing could grow so close to the mound. But that was silly. Barrow Hill was covered with grass, wasn’t it?
A thought whispered through her mind. Maybe it’s not grass. Maybe it’s hair.
A shiver rippled down her back,
and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the early spring breeze. She didn’t want to be here. Somehow, she knew this was a bad place.
Sarah, as usual not waiting to see if Joanne followed, started toward the mound. The slope was gradual enough that the girl didn’t have any trouble scrabbling up, climbing using both hands and feet, hunched over like an animal.
Joanne’s apprehension gave way to complete terror, and she called out Sarah’s name. Sarah just laughed that laugh again and kept going. Joanne felt weak all over, shaky and sick, like she had the flu, only ten times worse. Her stomach lurched, worse than the time she rode the Beast at Kings Island. She didn’t know how, didn’t care how, but she knew that something was going to happen to Sarah if she kept climbing the mound. Something awful.
Despite how sick she felt, Joanne started to climb after her friend, calling out, “Stop! Come back!”
But before she could get very far, a hand clamped down on her shoulder and stopped her. She was so caught up in her fear for Sarah that at first she barely registered the sensation of pressure on her shoulder. She fought to shrug free of whatever force was keeping her from going after her friend, but when she couldn’t break free, when all she could do was watch as Sarah continued moving up the hillside, seeming to pick up speed as she went, Joanne turned around.
“Don’t be afraid, sheriff.”
Sallow, desiccated flesh drawn tight to the skull, milky-white eyes sunken deep into their sockets, shriveled lips pulled back to reveal yellow teeth and snail-belly gray gums. Bald head, wire-haired mustache and goatee, and a blue button shirt, navy pants, and black shoes without laces. A prison uniform, she recognized, though she had idea how she should know this.
“I need to show you something.”
The corpse-thing’s voice was a breathy rasp, a dry wind moving across barren, rocky ground. Its mouth yawned, stretching nightmarishly wide, and a foul stench wafted forth from the cavernous opening. It smelled like shit and vomit and rotting meat. It smelled like death.
Joanne felt hot bile bubble up to the top of her throat, and now she struggled to break free of the corpse-thing’s grip so she could start running as fast and far as she could away from there and never ever stop. But the thing’s bony claw on her shoulder was too strong, and all she could do was stare into the darkness within the creature’s still widening mouth. Soon the darkness filled her vision completely and she could see nothing else, was no longer sure there was anything else. But then shapes started to form in the emptiness. Shapes that might be faces, but they were still too unformed for Joanne to tell for sure. The shapes slowly became more distinct while the death-stench continued emanating from the darkness like a wind blown straight from hell. Though it was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do in her young life, Joanne fought to keep from throwing up. She sensed the corpse-thing was attempting to reveal something to her, something important.
But just as the shapes neared the point of clarity, Joanne heard a high-pitched shriek of terror and pain. At first she thought the scream had come from her own mouth, but then she remembered the sensation of danger she’d felt before the corpse-thing’s arrival … remembered Sarah rushing pell-mell up the mound, determined to be crowned Queen of Barrow Hill.
Joanne tore her gaze away from the darkness just in time to see Sarah — like Jill — come tumbling down the hillside. Except, unlike the nursery rhyme character, Sarah had somehow lost one of her legs during her fall. As Sarah rolled toward Joanne, blood sprayed from the stump where her leg had been connected to the knee, and Joanne saw a white knob of bone sticking out of ragged red meat. Sarah came to a stop at the bottom of the hill not five feet from where Joanne stood. She lay there, not moving, sobbing weakly as blood continued to flow from her wound.
Joanne opened her mouth to scream, but dead fingers wrapped over the bottom half of her face, cutting off her voice.
“Thanks for sharing this memory with me, Sheriff. It’s the most amusing thing I’ve seen since Death Row.”
She felt a sandpaper-dry tongue rasp across her cheek, followed by laughter brittle as ancient bone shards.
• • •
“Jesus, hon! You all right?”
Joanne felt hands on her bare shoulders. She remembered the touch of dead flesh and she tried to pull away, but the hands grabbed her wrists to keep her from fleeing.
“Joanne, it’s just me. Relax. You had a bad dream.”
A confused rush of data streamed into her consciousness. She was sitting naked on a bed in a dark room, someone sat next to her holding onto her wrists, his thumbs gently stroking her skin. She inhaled the mingled scents of masculine sweat and post-coital musk. She was in her bedroom with Terry. They’d discussed the latest details of the investigation over dinner, then retired to her boudoir to have each other for dessert. She must’ve fallen asleep and …
“I was dreaming.”
“It must’ve been a hell of a nasty one, too. I almost had a heart attack when you screamed.”
For an instant she couldn’t recall the details of her dream, but then pieces came tumbling back and swiftly assembled themselves.
“Nasty is an understatement.”
Terry let go of her wrists and wrapped his arms around her. They lay back down on the bed and Joanne snuggled close to her lover.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked.
His mouth was near her neck and his soft breath rose goosebumps on her flesh, making her shiver.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time I had one of my Feelings?”
Terry hesitated before answering. He was a doctor, a man of science, and Joanne knew he became uncomfortable when she started talking about this subject — which was why she didn’t bring it up very often.
“No. Is that what you dreamed about?”
“Yeah. I was nine. It was only a few months after my disappearance. A friend of mine — Sarah Rodgers — and I were messing around near Barrow Hill Mound. She started to climb and I had the most terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen to her. I shouted for her to come down, but she didn’t listen. I wanted to go up after her, but I felt so sick and weak … and I was so scared. I stood frozen at the bottom, watching her climb, and then she screamed and came rolling down the hill. Somehow she’d lost her leg.”
“She what?”
“When she came to a stop, I saw that her left leg was gone beneath the knee. It had been ripped right off. The flesh around the wound was torn and ragged and there was blood everywhere. I’d never seen anyone seriously injured before that, and I had no idea that a person — especially a kid like me — could have so much blood in their body.”
“Christ … what did you do?”
“I took off my T-shirt and used it to try and staunch the wound. It didn’t do much to slow the bleeding, though, and I was afraid Sarah was going to die. She was so pale … I guess she was in shock, too, because all she did was look up at the sky and tremble while I worked to save her. I gave up on my shirt and tossed it aside. I pulled Sarah’s shirt off her and ripped it in two. I remember seeing someone put a tourniquet on a snakebite victim in a movie, and I figured the same technique might stop Sarah’s bleeding. I wrapped a strip of her shirt around her knee and tied it as tight as I could. The bleeding slowed finally, but it didn’t stop. I twisted the knot with my hand, and the blood flow died away to a tiny trickle. I felt thrilled that I’d stopped Sarah from bleeding to death, but my feeling of triumph immediately gave way to despair when I realized I couldn’t leave her to go get help because she’d started bleeding again. We’d ridden our bikes to the park, but no matter how fast I rode, I knew Sarah would be dead before I got back to town.”
“What happened? Did she die?”
“We got lucky. A sheriff’s deputy was making his usual drive through the park, and he saw us. He stopped and ran over to help. I was so happy to see him. I think that was the moment that I first started wanting to be a cop. He was able to make a much better tourniquet for Sarah a
nd then he carried her to his vehicle and put her in the backseat. I got our jackets, put mine on and helped Sarah into hers. Then I sat with her, holding her hand and telling her everything was going to be all right while the deputy drove like hell to Resurrection Hospital. The doctors told me later that we’d gotten Sarah there just in time. Any longer and it she wouldn’t have made it.”
“I don’t know Sarah. Does she live in the county?”
“We didn’t speak much after that. I guess in a way Sarah blamed me for what happened, though it was her idea to climb the mound. But that didn’t matter because I blamed myself. I’d known something bad was going to happen, but I’d failed to act on that feeling in time to do anything about it. After that, I vowed never to ignore one of my Feelings again, no matter how vague it might be. And I never have. Anyway, Sarah was in a wheelchair for a while, and eventually she got a prosthetic leg. Soon after that her family moved. Her dad got a job transfer, I think. I never saw her again.”
“God, what a nightmare.” Terry gently kissed the side of her neck. “You know, you probably did save her life. If you hadn’t stopped the bleeding with your tourniquet, she might’ve died en route to the hospital.”
“Maybe.”
“Not to be morbid, though I admit it’s an occupational hazard, but what caused Sarah’s injury?”
“No one knows.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Not at all. Sheriff Manchester and his deputies scoured Barrow Hill, but they found nothing that could account for what happened to Sarah, and Sarah herself had no idea how she lost her leg. All she remembered was feeling a flash of agony and then falling down the hill. The surface of the mound was smooth — no holes or crevices that she might’ve accidentally stepped into, no place where animals might’ve laired. Though what sort of animal could’ve taken a girl’s leg clean off, short of a bear, I can’t imagine. And here’s the really weird part: they never recovered her leg.”
“What happened? Did some animal find it and carry it off?”