by Tim Waggoner
No big deal, she thought. He’d probably gotten home late last night, taken his pain meds, and conked out. When he’d gotten the call to come in this morning, she figured he’d been too groggy to do anything other than get dressed and stumble out the door. Still, he didn’t look groggy. His eyes were bright and alert, and there was a gleam in them she couldn’t remember seeing before.
“Not to be disrespectful,” Ronnie said, “but have you been to the hospital yet? A head injury is nothing to mess around with.”
“I’m feeling all right,” she lied. “If I start to get worse, I’ll go get checked out, okay?” She thought for a moment. “If you’re feeling up to it, I suppose you could work crowd control. It was so early that not many looky-loo’s had arrived yet, but that was sure to change as the morning wore on.
“Sounds good, Sheriff.” Ronnie’s gaze flicked to where Marshall stood talking with an attractive model-thin redhead from Action Eye News. The gleam she’d detected a moment ago intensified for an instant, and if she hadn’t known Ronnie better, she would’ve described the look he gave Marshall as one of cold hatred. But then the deputy returned his gaze to her, showed his yellowed teeth in a smile once more, then headed off to get to work.
Something wasn’t right here, but Joanne’s head hurt too much for her to think straight. Maybe I should ask Ronnie for some of his meds, she thought.
She turned to look as a Jeep pulled up to join the caravan of sheriff’s cruisers, newsvans, and Marshall’s hummer. The newsdroids got excited at the prospect of having a new face to shove their microphones into, but when they saw Dale get out of the vehicle, their interest died. Reporters only interviewed another reporter when they were desperate.
Dale kept glancing around as he walked across the parking lot toward Joanne. At first she thought he was taking in the scene, noting details that he would write about later. But there was a nervousness verging on desperation to his manner that made her think about the way he’d behaved last night when they’d parted company at Sanctity. Was everyone in this goddamned county going crazy?
As Dale joined her, he said, “In my completely unprofessional medical opinion, you look like shit.”
“Right back at you.”
The flesh beneath Dale’s eyes was swollen and dark, and the eyes themselves seemed to have receded into the sockets somewhat since last she’d seen him. His wrinkles were more pronounced, the lines longer and deeper, and the skin hung lax on his face. His hair and beard were in disarray, and his suit was rumpled, his tie loose and hanging askew.
“I got ambushed like a rookie last night and got hit on the head by a rock,” she said. “What’s your excuse?”
Dale hesitated before replying. “I drove all night. Thinking.”
“The whole night?”
He shrugged. “I had a lot to think about.”
Joanne thought he was telling her the truth — he certainly looked like he’d been up all night — but not the entire truth.
“Look, Dale, you know I try to respect your privacy, but I’m really starting to worry about you. Tell me what’s going on. I’m your friend. I can help.”
Dale smiled wearily. “I appreciate that, Joanne. More than I can say. But the problem I have right now is one that I really don’t want to share — with anyone. I’ll find a way to shake it. Somehow.”
Joanne was about to tell Dale that she had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but before she could speak, Marshall detached himself from the newsdroids and came toward them. As soon as his back was to the cameras, his smile fell away and a troubled look came over his features. He stopped when he reached them and stared at the Café’s ruins for a moment.
“This is starting to piss me off.”
His voice was low and dangerous. There was anger and frustration in his tone, and Joanne thought she detected a bit of fear as well, though she couldn’t imagine he’d ever admit to it.
“Join the club,” she said. She saw no point in wasting time, so she asked, “How much do the two of you know?”
The three compared notes and, as she expected, both Dale and Marshall were already up to speed on last night’s events for the most part. Dale had his police scanner and Marshall … well, Marshall had his own information network spread throughout the county. She quickly filled in the blanks for them.
When she finished, Marshall asked, “Where is Debbie now?”
“At Resurrection Hospital,” Joanne said. “I assigned a deputy to guard her room, with strict orders not to leave his post for any reason short of the end of the world.”
“A number of the family work there,” Marshall said. “I’ll make sure they keep watch over her.” He took out his cell phone and stepped away from Joanne and Dale to make the call.
“Must be nice to be a puppetmaster,” Dale said with a sneer.
“Depends on the puppets,” Joanne replied. She glanced at Ronnie. He was walking the perimeter of the scene to make sure no unauthorized personnel came too close, but his gaze remained fixed on Marshall.
“So what do we have?” Dale said. “The person who killed Tyrone and attacked you matches the description Tyrone gave of the vandal who spray-painted Debbie’s car and broke into the café.”
“Not much to go on. Anyone could wear a hooded sweatshirt. Other than a rough similarity in physical type, there’s nothing to prove they were the same person. Tyrone didn’t get a good look at the vandal’s features the other night, and I didn’t see my attacker clearly either.”
Marshall had finished his call and now rejoined them. Dale nodded toward the cluster of TV reporters.
“I guess even the vaunted Cross connections couldn’t keep the vultures at bay forever.”
Marshall ignored him and addressed Joanne. “I overheard what you were discussing.”
Joanne didn’t bother asking how Marshall could have listened in on their conversation at the same time he was talking on his phone several yards away. It was one more in a number of weird things she was beginning to take for granted about him.
“What about Debbie?” he continued. “Did she get a good look at whoever it was?”
“Hard to say. After I came to I found her still standing in the street. I questioned her, but the stress of the last couple nights must’ve gotten to her, and she wasn’t in her right mind. All she could tell me was that her son had come back to her.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow. “She thinks the killer is literally Carl Coulter?”
“As near as I can tell,” Joanne said.
“But the descriptions both you and Tyrone gave don’t match Carl’s physical type,” Dale said.
Joanne almost laughed. “You sound as if you believe it’s possible for a man executed in prison to come back to life years later and pick up where he left off.”
Marshall didn’t respond, and when Joanne looked at Dale, he had a thoughtful, worried expression on his face. She wanted to tell them that they were both nuts, but then she thought of how she’d seen Carl in the Deveraux barn and of the dream she’d had of him last night. Suddenly the two men standing with her no longer seemed quite so crazy.
“Last night’s events would seem to strongly link Ray Porter’s murder and the original break-in at the café,” Marshall said. “Let’s assume for the moment that it was the same person who committed all of these crimes. The big question before us is why whoever it is didn’t kill Joanne once she was unconscious.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she muttered.
“Don’t joke like that,” Marshall said, then he surprised her by reaching out and gently squeezing her hand. “Your death would be an unbearable loss to the county.”
He still had hold of her hand, and she had to resist the urge to squeeze back. “Just to the county?”
He held her hand a moment longer before finally letting go.
“At the risk of making a pun,” Dale said, “could we please get back to the business at hand?”
Joanne felt her cheeks burn with embar
rassment, and she was surprised to see Marshall color a bit as well.
“That’s the first question I asked myself when I came to,” she admitted. “I didn’t have an answer then, and I don’t have one now.”
“Perhaps the killer feared you’d already called for backup and deputies were on their way,” Dale said.
“Maybe,” Marshall replied, “but it doesn’t take long to cut a throat and carve a simple design into a body, especially when your victim is unconscious.” Both Joanne and Dale stared at him, and he quickly added, “Not that I have firsthand knowledge of such procedures.”
“Did the owners of the house wake up?” Dale asked. “Did they turn on the back porch light or anything?”
Joanne shook her head and instantly regretted it when the motion made the throbbing worse. “Believe it or not, the Duvalls slept through the whole thing.”
“My guess is the killer set the café on fire to draw away the deputy guarding Debbie and to keep the rest of you busy,” Dale said, “which means she was the intended target. That makes poor Tyrone what? An unexpected bonus?”
Dale’s voice held barely restrained anguish, and Joanne knew what her friend was thinking. If he hadn’t gone to Tyrone for information, the man might still be alive today.
“I believe Tyrone went to Debbie’s last night hoping to get a look at some action,” Joanne said, “and the killer discovered his presence and decided to take out a potential witness.”
“He got more than a look,” Marshall said. “He got an extreme close-up.”
Joanne ignored him. “There’s nothing to indicate Tyrone was targeted on purpose. The killer would’ve had no way to know he would be there.” Joanne had hoped to reassure Dale, but she could see that he didn’t feel any better.
“Maybe,” Dale said. “But it seems like an awfully big coincidence, doesn’t it?”
“One too many, if you ask me,” Marshall said. He seemed to debate with himself a moment before adding, “I spoke with Tyrone yesterday afternoon. It was … how I learned that Lenora had gone for a drive with the Porter boy.” He held up a hand. “And before either of you ask, neither Lenora nor I lied to you last night. The truth needed no alteration.”
“Perhaps you told the truth as you believed it,” Dale said. “But how do you know Lenora didn’t lie to us — all of us?”
Marshall glared at Dale for a long moment, but then his anger drained out of him. His shoulders slumped and he averted his gaze.
“My daughter has been missing since last night. I’m not sure when she left exactly, but she took one of the cars — a BMW. No one saw her go, and though I have every eye I own in the county looking for her, so far no one has reported seeing her.”
Joanne didn’t ask if he had any idea where she’d gone. If he had, he’d have already checked there. Instead, she asked, “You’re sure she left alone? There were a lot of people at Sanctity last night.”
“There are always a lot of guests,” Marshall said. “But they are all accounted for. And to answer your next question, she left of her own free will. None of the alarm systems in the house or garage were activated, and no one could’ve forced Lenora to give them the access codes.”
Considering what little she’d seen of Lenora last night, Joanne could believe it. “In this case, maybe your daughter going missing really is a coincidence.” She thought of her conversation with Althea Cross last night, a conversation Marshall was evidently unaware of. “The two of you seemed to have a strained relationship. Did you have an argument yesterday? Maybe she left because she was mad at you.”
Marshall stiffened. “I’d know if my daughter was that angry with me.”
“You didn’t know she’d gone parking with Ray Porter,” Dale pointed out. He spoke with more compassion that Joanne expected, but then she realized the two men had something in common. They’d both lost wives. She wondered if Dale knew the truth about Charlotte Cross’s disappearance. He must, she decided. “There are many things we don’t know about the people in our lives,” Dale continued. “Things we often don’t want to know, and so we turn a blind eye toward them. There are so many frightening things in this world, but of them all, the most terrifying is the truth.”
Marshall regarded Dale for a long moment, then said, “You sound like a man who speaks from experience.”
Dale replied with a brief smile. “I wish I wasn’t.”
“I’ll inform my people to start looking for Lenora,” Joanne said. “Just in case.”
Marshall looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end he merely nodded.
Silence descended on the three of them after that, and for a time they watched Joanne’s deputies poke around the blackened ruins of the Caffeine Café.
“This is going to break Debbie’s heart when she learns about it,” Dale said. “Ever since she lost her husband and son, this place was all she had. It was her whole life, a way she could give a little something back to the community Carl took so much from.” He turned to Joanne. “She doesn’t know yet, right?”
“I didn’t think she was ready to hear about the fire,” Joanne said. “Not in the state she’s in.”
“I’ve been reconsidering my earlier thoughts on Debbie’s situation,” Marshall said. “Even with members of the family watching over her, the hospital isn’t a safe place for her. The killer may well make another try for her there. The only place in the world where she’ll truly be safe is within the walls of Sanctity. I propose we remove her from the hospital and take her to my home.”
“But she needs medical care,” Joanne said.
“And she shall receive it,” Marshall replied. “Remember, most of the doctors in this county are related to the Crosses in one way or another. I’ll have no problem finding an excellent physician to stay with her.”
Joanne was reluctant to agree to Marshall’s plan, for the simple reason that she’d be turning over control of Debbie’s protection to the Crosses. But then again, Debbie would be well guarded at Sanctity — assuming Marshall was telling the truth when he said he wanted to keep her safe. Maybe he had an ulterior motive for wanting to house Debbie at Sanctity, though she couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“Not to sound callous,” Dale said, “but leaving Debbie in the hospital might be the best way to draw the killer out into the open. It could be our best chance to catch him.”
“I will not allow you to use her as bait,” Marshall said.
Joanne winced as she felt a sensation of pressure behind her forehead that only added to the pain she already felt. Dale must’ve experienced something similar, for he grimaced and took a step back from Marshall. But Dale quickly recovered and shot back. “Since when did you give a shit about the welfare of anyone not clinging to the highest branches of the diseased growth you call a family tree?”
Marshall’s expression became one of poorly restrained fury, and he took a step toward Dale.
Joanne interposed herself between the two men, but before she could tell them to knock it the hell off, her cell phone rang. She checked the incoming number on the display and recognized it.
“If you two can hold off killing each other for a moment, Terry’s calling.” She stepped away from Dale and Marshall, who continued glaring at one another but kept their distance, and she answered the phone.
“Hi, lover,” Terry said. “I don’t suppose your day’s off to too good a start, huh?”
She sighed. “How did you guess?”
“I’m just lucky like that. Your head still hurt?”
“It’s a little better,” she lied. She’d let Terry take a look at it when he’d arrived at the scene of Tyrone’s murder, and while he said she didn’t appear to have a concussion, she should really be checked out over at the hospital. Her reply, I’ve never been one to follow doctor’s orders. Out of bed, anyway.
“I’ve finished a preliminary examination of Tyrone’s body, and while I still need to do an autopsy, I can tell you the man was in surprisingly decent shape for someone who live
d on the streets. His wounds are exactly the same as those on Ray Porter. I have no doubt the same person killed both men.” His voice shifted from detached professionalism to a much warmer tone. “I’m just grateful the son of a bitch only conked you on the noggin.”
She smiled, but she couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling she had after hearing Terry make the cold comment about Tyrone sleeping forever. “Anything else?”
“Not yet. How about you?”
She told him about Lenora being missing and Marshall’s plan to take Debbie to Sanctity.
“That strikes me as a screwed-up strategy, quite frankly. Can you afford to let him do that? Wouldn’t that count as some kind of unprofessional conduct for your department?”
She frowned, surprised by his reaction. “I know you’re not a big fan of the Crosses, but I’m inclined to trust Marshall on this.” Until she said it, she hadn’t known she’d come to a decision.
“I’m glad you and Marshall understand each other so well.” Terry’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but I really don’t need this shit right now.”
Terry was quiet so long that Joanne thought the call had been dropped. But then he said, “I’m sorry. Neither of us has gotten enough sleep the last couple nights. How about we pretend we didn’t snap at each other, and I’ll call you later after I finish Tyrone’s autopsy?”
She felt like arguing further, but she knew he was right. She was too sleep-deprived and stressed to think straight, and if their conversation continued, one or both of them would eventually say something they’d regret.
“Sure thing. Talk to you later.” Joanne disconnected before Terry could reply. As she tucked her phone back into its belt holder, she thought of what Dale had said about how there were many things we don’t know about the people in our lives. She’d just gotten a glimpse of a different side of Terry Birch, and it was one she didn’t especially like.
She returned to Dale and Marshall, glad to see that both men had refrained from attacking one another, though from the glares they still exchanged, it hadn’t been easy. She told them about Terry’s initial analysis of Tyrone’s injuries, but neither commented. What was there to say? It wasn’t as if the news came as any great surprise.