by Tim Waggoner
Joanne thought about the vision of Carl Coulter she’d had at the Deveraux Farm and of Carl’s subsequent appearance in her nightmare.
• • •
It was raining harder when Joanne and Dale left the not-so-hallowed halls of Sanctity, though not quite hard enough to qualify as a full-fledged storm yet. Neither of them carried umbrellas, so they hurried to Joanne’s cruiser and quickly got in.
“So what do you think?” Joanne asked.
Dale shrugged. “It’s hard to know what to think. She seemed to be telling the truth.”
“But she’s a Cross.”
“Exactly. I liked how you reassured her there at the end. ‘We have no reason to believe you were ever at target.’ We have no reason to believe she wasn’t, either. Same thing about them not planning to go out to the farm. Someone could’ve followed them.”
“Lenora said they weren’t followed.”
“She said they didn’t notice anyone following them. Big difference, but you already know that.”
“Yeah. Her story seems to track well enough, and it provides a possible explanation for why Ray’s wallet was in the barn. He could’ve gone inside on his own, or been taken inside by the killer and dropped it then.”
“And the killer decided to drive him out into the middle of nowhere, slash his throat, and leave the body in the ditch?”
“No blood evidence at the barn or in Ray’s Camaro.”
“Why not just kill him in the barn?” Dale argued. “Especially is the murderer wants to emulate Carl’s MO. Carl killed all his victims in that barn. It’s a perfect place — quiet, isolated, no neighbors close by. Even on a county road at night, someone might drive by and see you. And if they didn’t witness you commit the crime itself, then they might see you driving there before or after. It’s seems too risky.”
“Maybe the killer was worried Lenora might have a change of heart and come back for Ray,” Joanne said.
“Maybe,” Dale allowed. “But in that case, how did the killer get Ray to the murder scene? From what you told me on the plane, Terry found no evidence that Ray was bound in any way — no rope burns or duct-tape marks — and there was no blow to the head to knock him out.”
“Maybe Ray was drugged. We won’t know until the state crime lab returns the toxicology results.”
“Carl didn’t drug his victims. Another possible difference between the killers — depending, as you said, on the test results.”
“From the way you’re talking, it sounds like you think there’s a possibility that Carl himself might’ve committed Ray’s murder.” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but here, sitting in the cruiser in the dark, outside the imposing gothic presence of Sanctity, it didn’t sound funny. Not at all.
“I’m just thinking in terms of a copycat, that’s all.”
“Sure.”
But neither of them sounded very convincing, she thought.
She noticed Dale kept looking through the cruiser’s windows, checking each one in turn — passenger’s side, windshield, driver’s side, and rear window. He didn’t do this in an obvious way, didn’t turn his head all the way around if he didn’t have to, didn’t allow his gaze to linger long. But it wasn’t enough to fool Joanne, though that’s what he was obviously trying to do.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
“What? Oh, no. Just seeing what I can see. I don’t get up this way much, you know. Nice to see how the other half lives, right?”
She didn’t buy his excuse for a second. It was too dark to get a good look at Sanctity’s grounds. Besides, Dale didn’t give a damn about things like that. He was probably the least materialistic person she knew. But there was one part of his reply that she couldn’t let pass without comment.
“I didn’t know you’d been here before.” When he didn’t respond right away, she added. “You said, ‘I don’t get up this way much.’ And don’t tell me it’s a figure of speech. I know you choose your words more carefully than that.”
Dale looked out the windshield again, and this time she had the sense that he did so to avoid meeting her gaze.
“I’ve been a reporter in this county for a long time, Joanne. I’ve had occasion to come to Sanctity once or twice while I was working. If the Crosses had their way, I’d have been up here a lot more often. They’d love to have complete control over the Echo. Unfortunately for them, the owner, publisher, editor, and chief reporter are all stubborn, uncooperative jackasses.”
Joanne grinned. “I though you were the only jackass at the paper.”
Dale grinned back. “So that’s why I have to sign my own paychecks. I always wondered.”
Joanne knew Dale had avoided giving her a real answer, but she decided not to push it. If he had something to tell her, he’d do so in his own time. She’d been trying to decide whether to tell him about her nightmare, and she almost decided to hold off. She knew at least part of the reason was because Dale was holding back on her. But in the end she decided not to be petty and told him. When she was done, they discussed the dream a bit, but they mutually decided that Carl’s nightmare visit really didn’t have any significance. A dream was just a dream, nothing more.
Their discussion got Joanne to thinking about something else that had bothered her on and off over the years. The Crosses had their fingers in everything that went on in their county. But they’d never tried to control her. Urge, manipulate, and occasionally intimidate, yes. But they’d never attempted to bribe or blackmail her. Or, if some of the stories county folk told could be believed, the Crosses had never tried to persuade her in their “special” way, whatever exactly that was. If they’d love to control the paper, as Dale had said, then how much more would they desire to control the Sheriff’s Department? Sometimes she thought they might well have done just that with her predecessor, though Dale had never said anything to indicate that Stan Manchester had been corrupt.
She liked to think the reason the Crosses had never tried to corrupt her was because they knew how she’d react to any such attempts. But she doubted it could be that simple. Nothing with the Crosses ever was.
“So now what?” Dale asked.
“I’ll do my best to get the state crime lab to hurry up, but it’s bound to be a while before we get any results back. In the meantime, I’ll have my deputies interview all of Ray’s friends, see what they can turn up. I’ll go back over the evidence we’ve gathered, see if anything jumps out that I might’ve missed before. And all the while I’ll be holding my breath and hoping that whoever killed Ray Porter doesn’t decide to strike again.”
“And what do you think the odds of that are?”
“Not good,” she admitted. “There’s a reason why the killer’s copied Carl’s methods. A reason why someone — quite possibly the same person — terrorized Debbie Coulter last night. Whatever’s going on, it’s not over. It’s just begun.”
“I wish I could say I disagree, but I can’t. I may not get Feelings like yours, but my gut instincts tell me you’re right.”
“How about you? What’s your next move?” She didn’t bother asking if he was going to keep investigating Ray’s murder and the attack on Debbie. Once Dale started working on a story, he didn’t stop. It was another way they were alike.
He glanced out the passenger’s side window. “I’m not sure. I might go for a long drive. There’s something that’s … been nagging me lately.”
Joanne knew Dale sometimes took such drives, especially when he’d been thinking about his wife and daughter. “Good idea. A drive always clears your head.”
“It’s not so much a matter of clearing something as it is losing it.”
Before Joanne could ask Dale to explain, he got out of the cruiser and hurried through the rain to his Jeep, looking around as if to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He got inside, turned on the engine, and hit the headlights. He then turned his vehicle around and began heading down the long driveway.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she sa
w something dark and sleek follow swiftly after him, running behind the trees lining the driveway. Just like she thought she’d seen something lurking about earlier when she arrived at Sanctity.
No, she decided. She hadn’t seen anything. She was tired and stressed, and her eyes were playing tricks on her, simple as that. She’d check in with whoever was on desk duty tonight — Anderson, she thought — and see how things were going. If all was well, she’d head home and try to catch up on some sleep.
She inserted the key into the ignition and started to turn it when her cell phone ran. Fearing her plans for sleep were about to go seriously awry, she answered her phone.
“Sheriff Talon.”
“Hello, Joanne. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
Joanne didn’t recognize the woman on the other end. Her words were spoken softly, almost whispered, yet there was an underlying strength and sureness to them. Joanne had the impression she was hearing someone old speak, but someone who still possessed a great deal of vitality.
“I’m sorry, but who is this?”
A gentle chuckle, playful and somehow disturbingly intimate, as if the other woman thought she was sharing a private joke with a confidant.
“It’s I should be sorry, my dear. I should’ve remembered my manners. This is Althea Cross. I was hoping you might have a few moments to visit with an old woman before you leave the grounds.”
Joanne was so surprised that she couldn’t answer right away, but she did take the key out of the ignition. And though there was no way Althea could’ve heard her do this, the woman said, “Good.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Joanne carried a flashlight in her right hand and an open umbrella in her left. Rain pelted the umbrella’s fabric and rivulets ran down the sides. The rain caught and reflected the flashlight’s glow, making it difficult to see. But visibility would’ve been nonexistent without the flashlight’s beam, so she left it on. She stepped cautiously through the wet grass, the cuffs of her uniform pants soaked, as were the socks beneath. Joanne hoped the worst of the storm had already moved far enough south so that Ronnie was out of it. This would be a real bitch to drive through.
The grounds behind Sanctity — one did not use such pedestrian terms as front yard and back yard when referring to a place such as this — were unlit, and Joanne had no idea precisely where she was at and, more importantly, what was around her. Why the darkness, she wondered. It wasn’t as if the Crosses couldn’t afford to illuminate the grounds. Maybe they weren’t used to folks wandering the grounds after the sun had gone down. Maybe Althea had turned off the lights so no one would witness her meeting with Joanne. Perhaps the Crosses were simply more comfortable with darkness. She smiled grimly at the thought.
“Darkness of all kinds,” she added, speaking softly to herself.
She continued walking, sweeping the flashlight beam back and forth, hoping to spot the grande dame of the Cross family. She began to feel a strange disorienting sensation, like thousands of ants were crawling through the narrow space between her skull and brain. She remembered another time that she was surrounded by darkness and damp. It hadn’t been raining in the cavern, but she’d been cold, naked, alone, and hungry. As soon as the memory flash came, it disappeared, but the feelings of fear and abandonment remained behind.
Joanne considered turning around and heading back to her cruiser and getting the hell out of here. But before she could do so, she heard a woman’s voice singing a wordless tune. Out here on Sanctity’s grounds, in the dark and the rain, the sound was eerie, and Joanne couldn’t help shivering. But her voice was strong as she called out, “Is that you, Mrs. Cross?”
The singing stopped, and the woman replied in a voice that, while soft, was firm and confident. “Call me, Althea, child. I’m over here, in the gazebo.”
Joanne swung the beam of her flashlight in the direction of the voice and saw a white gazebo, thin vines curled around the supports of the black-shingled roof. A shadowy form sat on a bench inside, partially hidden by a curtain of streaming rainwater pouring off the roof. The figure was small and slight, barely larger than a child. She raised a hand to cover her eyes.
“I’d be grateful if you could avoid pointing your flashlight directly at me. The light’s harsh to these old eyes of mine, I’m afraid.”
Joanne angled her hand downward so the flashlight’s beam no longer shone on the gazebo but still provided enough illumination to guide her steps as she walked toward it. As she entered the gazebo, she kept the flashlight aimed at her feet, but she didn’t turn it off. She didn’t fear for her safety. If the Crosses wanted to attack her, they could’ve done so any time. But she wanted to be able to see Althea Cross, not only to gauge the woman’s reactions as they spoke, but out of simple curiosity. Joanne thumbed the catch to automatically close her umbrella, then sat on a bench opposite her hostess.
“Thank you from coming to speak with me,” Althea said. “I know it’s uncomfortable to be trudging around the grounds in the rain like this when we could be inside, warm and dry.”
Althea might not be warm out here, but she was dry, Joanne noticed. And there was no sign she’d brought an umbrella with her. Joanne was most assuredly not dry.
“You could’ve just told me to meet you in the gazebo when you called, instead of just saying, ‘I’ll be out back.’ ”
“Perhaps. But where would be the fun in that? A night like this” — Althea gestured to the night and the rain — “absolutely demands a touch of intrigue, don’t you think?”
“Speaking of intrigue, I assume you wished to meet with me out here so that we could speak in private,” Joanne said.
“That, and I love listening to the sound of the rain, especially when there’s a bit of thunder off in the distance.”
Joanne shouldn’t have been startled by Althea’s words. After all, lots of people enjoyed listening to rain. But hearing the woman echo the thoughts Joanne had been thinking just before her cell phone rang was more than a little unnerving, given the circumstances.
Joanne had expected Althea Cross to be a wizened old woman in her eighties, if not her nineties. A frail thing with sagging, wrinkled skin, bird-boned arms and legs, and wisps of fine white hair clinging to a liver-spotted scalp. But while the woman sitting across from Joanne was petite, she was anything but decrepit. She appeared to be no older than sixty — which was impossible since Marshall, her son, was in his fifties — and she was elegantly attractive. She possessed high cheekbones, patrician nose, regal chin, and eyes the same ice-blue as her son and granddaughter. Her make-up was subtle and understated, and while her hair was silver, it was thick, full, and salon-styled. She wore an expensive brown leather jacket over a black dress, the hemline just above the knee. Her legs were toned and firm, like those of a woman in her thirties. Hell, they looked better than Joanne’s did. A pair of black high heels completed Althea’s outfit, and Joanne noted they were not only dry, but there was no mud on them, despite the heavy rainfall. The woman was so slender, maybe she slipped between the raindrops, Joanne thought.
Althea offered her hand, and though Joanne wasn’t here for a social occasion, she decided it wouldn’t be wise to be rude to the most powerful woman in this part of the state, and so she reached out and clasped Althea’s hand. The woman’s grip was firmer than Joanne expected, almost painful, in fact, and though the skin was smooth, it was dry and too warm, almost hot. Joanne imagined she was touching the hide of some desert lizard, and she grateful when Althea released her hand. The older woman’s eyes glimmered with amusement, as if she were aware of Joanne’s discomfort and enjoyed it.
Joanne worked to maintain her professional composure as she spoke, but it wasn’t easy. She had just met Althea Cross, and already the woman had her off balance.
“When your son greeted me tonight, he told me that you rarely left your room. If that’s true, I’m glad you made an exception for me.”
“Marshall’s a dear, and I’d be lost without him. But he can be a bit overpr
otective at times.” A thin smile. “I might not be a young, fresh thing anymore, but I’m hardly an invalid.”
Joanne became aware of a scent intermingling with the smells of rain and wet grass. It was sweet in a way, but it was too cloying, too faintly repulsive to be perfume. Certainly not any scent a woman of Althea’s wealth and taste would choose to wear. It wasn’t a smell Joanne usually associated with old people, either — soap, medicine, or musty cloth. Rather it was the scent of cut flowers on the verge of going bad, petals drooping, their edges turning brown. It was probably some scent clinging to the gazebo itself, Joanne told herself, one that had nothing to do with Althea Cross. A person couldn’t smell that like … could they?
“You know why I came here tonight,” Joanne said.
Althea nodded. “I know all about the murder of the Porter boy. Marshall keeps me well informed. I also know my granddaughter saw the boy last night, and that they parted ways before he was killed. And before you say anything, I understand you can’t accept Lenora’s story at face value. You can’t afford to in your line of work.”
“What else do you know?”
Althea surprised Joanne by throwing back her head and letting out a hearty laugh. “Child, if I started telling you everything I know, we’d still be here until well after sunrise! But of course you’re asking if I know anything that might aid you in your investigation. And while you might find this hard to believe, I do wish to help. You fulfill an absolutely vital function in our community, Joanne. I will do whatever I can to help perform that function.”
Though Althea’s words might’ve seemed overly formal and forced if someone else had spoken them, coming from her, they possessed a sincere solemnity that made her pledge seem believable, or nearly so.
“Do you know who killed Ray Porter?”
“No.”
“Do you know who terrorized Debbie Coulter?”
“No. Do you think they’re one and the same? That would be my guess, but then I’m not a trained law-enforcement officer.”