by Tim Waggoner
As if their thoughts were running along similar lines, Marshall said, “I need to see Tyrone’s body.”
It didn’t take long for Joanne to find out which freezer was Tyrone’s. She slid it open and exposed Tyrone’s sheet-covered body up to the chest. The man’s skin was pale and waxen, but the blood had been cleaned away from his throat and stomach wounds, but no other incisions had been made. Terry hadn’t done the autopsy. Where the hell was he? Had one of his living patients called with a medical emergency?
While she was trying to come up with an explanation for Terry’s absence, Marshall pulled something out of his jacket pocket. At first she couldn’t tell what it was, but as he stepped past her and pressed the object to the side of Tyrone’s head, she could see it was a crude stone carving of a miniature human figure.
“What the hell are you doing?” She reached out to bat his hand away, but Marshall grabbed her wrist with his other hand, fingers wrapping around like a band of steel.
“It’s vital you don’t interrupt the process, Joanne. It won’t take very — ” He broke off, frowning. “Something’s wrong. It’s not here.”
“What’s not here?” Joanne tried to pull free from Marshall’s grip, but she couldn’t. She felt like a small child unable to break away from a much stronger adult. It irritated the piss out of her, and she was seriously considering going for her weapon with her free hand when Marshall let her go.
“His essence,” Marshall said. He pulled the carving away from Tyrone’s head and replaced it in his jacket. “You can put the body away. It’s useless now.”
Marshall turned and started walking toward the door. Her wrist aching from where Marshall had gripped it, she covered Tyrone with the sheet once more and slid his drawer back into the freezer. Then she hurried after Marshall, but no matter how hard she tried to get him to explain what he’d done — or at least tried to do — he refused to answer.
They didn’t speak the rest of the way to Resurrection Hospital.
• • •
“You doing all right back there, Debbie?”
Joanne glanced up at the rearview mirror. Through the black safety mesh that separated the front and back seats of the cruiser, she saw Debbie sitting with her hands on her lap, gazing out the side window. She’d exchanged her hospital gown for the clothes she’d been wearing when Joanne had taken her to the hospital last night — blue sweater, white blouse, jeans, and running shoes. She wore no makeup or jewelry and her face looked washed-out and drawn, as if she’d aged a decade in the few hours since Joanne had last seen her.
Debbie didn’t reply and gave no sign she’d heard Joanne’s question.
“I feel awkward sitting up front,” Marshall said. “Debbie should be sitting here.”
Joanne grimaced. She’d gotten some ibruprofen at the hospital pharmacy and had taken three times the recommended dosage. It hadn’t removed the pain in her head, but it took the edge off enough for her to function. “We’ve been through this already.” She didn’t want to say so again in front of Debbie, but given the way the woman was acting, it simply wasn’t a good idea to allow her to sit in front. She’d been docile to the point of near catatonia since they arrived to pick her up, but that could change at any moment. If Debbie should suddenly lose it, she might do something to interfere with Joanne’s driving. At the very least Joanne would have to subdue and cuff Debbie if she wouldn’t settle down. At worst, Debbie could cause the cruiser to wreck. Either way, it was better for Debbie to ride in the back, though it continued to make Marshall uncomfortable, probably because he viewed the back seat of the cruiser as a place for criminals. Marshall was just going to have to tough it out, though. Debbie seemed content enough back there, and it wouldn’t be all that long before they reached Sanctity.
Joanne was still concerned about Debbie’s condition, however. She hoped they were doing the right thing. Marshall insisted that the physician who’d tend to Debbie at Sanctity was the best in this part of the state, and while she had no reason to doubt him, she still didn’t —
Her cell phone rang, cutting her off in mid-thought. She figured it was Dale, and she was right. She listened for several moments as he spoke. When he was finished, she said, “We’ve got Debbie and we’re on our way to Sanctity. Get there as soon as you can.” She disconnected and slipped the phone back into its belt pouch.
She continued driving in silence for a time, and after a bit Marshall asked, “Anything important?”
She stared straight ahead as she drove. “You’re Carl Coulter’s real father.”
Marshall didn’t respond right away, but from the back seat, Debbie said, “Of course he is, silly. He did his best to be a good father, too, given the circumstances. Marshall would come over sometimes when my husband was at work or off on a fishing trip with his cronies. Sometimes he’d meet us at a park or a playground — in another town, of course. Sometimes we’d go all the way to Cincinnati. You should’ve seen the two of them together. Carl just loved spending time with his Uncle Marshall. You should have been there last night, Marshall. He would’ve been so happy to see you.” She fell quiet again and leaned her head against the side window. In the rearview mirror, Joanne saw tears begin to run down the woman’s cheeks.
Joanne turned to look at Marshall. “Carl didn’t really believe you were his uncle, did he?”
Marshall slumped in his seat, no longer looking like the most powerful man in this part of the state. He looked small, defeated, and so very tired.
“He did when he was young. But as he got older, he discovered the truth. I don’t know if he figured it out on his own, if Debbie told him, or if he someone sensed it. It doesn’t matter. He knew.”
Joanne didn’t say anything. Years of experience in law enforcement had taught her to be quiet and listen when someone was ready to talk, and Marshall was ready.
“I met Debbie when she first opened the café. I was … looking to marry a woman outside the extended Cross family. To bring in some new blood.”
Joanne remembered her conversation with Althea in the gazebo last night. She’d said the same thing about why Marshall had married Lenora’s mother.
“At first I saw it as my duty, and one that I found distasteful, for I wished to marry out of love, not genetic necessity. But as I got to know Debbie, I became attracted to her. She was beautiful, but in a real-world way. Nothing like Cross women. They all seem of a kind, like dolls made of delicate china. Pretty to look at, but cold and hollow inside. But Debbie was different. She’d lived a life that had nothing to do with bettering your position within the family hierarchy and fulfilling your ancestral duties. It was a life she’d made herself, built from her own choices. But she was like a Cross in one important way. She possessed a core of inner strength, as strong as any woman I’d ever met, inside the family or out.
“She was married, but I didn’t care. I was Marshall Cross. I could have any woman I wanted. Except, as it turned out, Debbie. Though she was attracted to me, she loved her husband and refused to do anything that would hurt him. I admired that, and I tired to respect it, I really did. But I was young and lacked discipline, and I wanted her so badly …”
“You did something to make her sleep with you,” Joanne guessed.
“I … persisted until she gave in,” Marshall hedged. “Even so, she was determined to remain with her husband, and by this point I didn’t care. As long as I could be with her, I was willing to share her if that’s what it took.”
“And eventually she got pregnant by you.”
Marshall nodded. “Her husband was a good man, but he had a low sex drive and they didn’t make love often. Debbie assumed I was the father, but we weren’t certain until after the child was born and we could have a blood test done in secrecy. But I knew the first time I saw Carl’s eyes. All babies start out life with blue eyes, I know, but not Cross blue. Besides, we can always recognize our own kind.
“Debbie still didn’t want to marry me, but I was determined to do what I could to
provide for my child. I gave her money when she needed it, and as she said, I spent time with them whenever I could. But as the years went by it became harder to conceal the truth from the rest of the world, and Debbie’s husband was beginning to become suspicious. Debbie told me that I had to stop seeing Carl and her, and though it broke my heart, I told her I understood and would do as she asked. And I did. Aside from an occasional stop at the Café, I had no significant contact with Debbie for years … until Carl’s murders.”
Marshall fell silent, and Joanne looked at the rearview to see how Debbie was taking all this, but the woman seemed to be off in her own world and not paying attention to their conversation.
“What caused Carl to start killing?” she prompted.
“I suspect it was a combination of things. He wasn’t raised as a Cross and therefore received little training in how to handle his more aggressive tendencies.” Marshall took in a deep breath and let it out. “But I’m afraid the main reason was that he was hoping to impress me, be recognized as a Cross, and invited to live with us at Sanctity. I’d feared as much when he was arrested, and he confirmed it for me during the one visit I paid to him in prison. He told me each of his four victims had committed offenses against the family. He wouldn’t give me any specifics, so I have no way of knowing whether those offenses were major or minor, real or imagined. I do know that I received no reports to indicate any of Carl’s victims had done anything to deserve their fate.”
Joanne noted that Marshall wasn’t condemning murderous retribution, only disapproving of baseless revenge.
“What about the symbol he carved into his victims?” she asked.
“Meaningless. It was just something Carl made up. A way of signing his work, I suppose.”
Marshall said this a little too smoothly for Joanne to buy it. But she decided to let the matter pass for now. Besides, the meaning of the triangle-lightning symbol paled in comparison to the rest of what Marshall had told her so far.
He said nothing more after that, and several minutes went by where the only sounds were the cruiser’s engine, the tires rolling across asphalt, and a soft humming from Debbie in the backseat. Finally, Joanne spoke.
“I talked with your mother last night. She called my cell phone as I was getting ready to leave Sanctity and asked me to meet her behind the house.”
Marshall looked surprised, but he made no comment, and Joanne continued.
“She told me how you felt about Charlotte and what really happened to her. She also told me why you’ve allowed Lenora to believe that you drove her mother away — or worse.”
“I was married to Charlotte by the time Debbie’s husband passed away, or else — ” He broke off and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I loved Charlotte and had no wish to break Lenora’s heart by telling her the truth. Better she hate me. After all, since Charlotte came to detest being a Cross, in a way I was responsible for her decision to take her own life.”
“Your wife killed herself?” Joanne said, unable to keep the shock she felt out of her voice.
Marshall looked at her. “I suppose you believed the rumors that I made Charlotte ‘disappear.’ ”
Joanne felt embarrassed. “Not really, but … I had no idea what really happened. I’m sorry.”
Marshall accepted Joanne’s sympathy with a curt nod.
Joanne thought for a moment. “Does Lenora know that Carl is her half-brother?”
“No.” But there was a hint of doubt in Marshall’s voice, as if he were less than confident in his reply.
“I wish you two would stop talking,” Debbie said. “I can’t hear myself hum.”
“Sorry,” Joanne murmured, and they drove the rest of the way to Sanctity in silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts or — in Debbie’s case — a lack thereof.
• • •
Ronnie’s skin felt coated with a thick layer of grease, and he itched all over, as if the muck oozing out of his own pores was slowly dissolving his outer flesh. For the first time in close to forty-five years, he hadn’t bathed in over twenty-four hours. But instead of feeling dirty, he felt good, felt free. Free not only from the constraints placed upon him by his own inflexible patterns of behavior, but free from the constraints of society as well. He was free to do as he damned well pleased, free to do anything.
To do what must be done.
But before he could get started on his real work, he had one last task to perform for Sheriff Jo-Jo.
As he pulled his cruiser up to the outskirts of the Deveraux property, he saw a vehicle parked at the edge of a field, not far from the barn. It was a Lexus — Dr. Birch’s, as a matter of fact. He frowned as he pulled up next to the car and parked. What was the coroner doing out here? Had a body been discovered? If so, why hadn’t dispatch radioed to tell him? Why weren’t there other deputies here? It made no sense for Dr. Birch to be on the scene first. Ronnie turned off the cruiser’s engine and got out. And that’s when he saw that all four of the Lexus’s tires had been slashed.
He’d been here yesterday and had given the area a thorough going-over, but now he noticed something strange in addition to the state of Dr. Birch’s tires. On the other sides of the Lexus he saw new tires tracks in the muddy ground — he thought of last night’s storm and shuddered — and he knew another vehicle had been here recently. And he’d bet a month’s salary that whoever had been driving the second vehicle had also slashed the coroner’s tires.
He looked at the barn and saw that the door in the back was open, the crime-scene tape he’d stretched across it yesterday cut in two. Dr. Birch wouldn’t have done that. He would’ve opened the door without disturbing the tape and ducked underneath it to enter the barn.
During his career as a law-enforcement officer, Ronnie rarely had cause to draw his weapon in the line of duty, let alone discharge it. But he was free now, and he could do whatever was necessary. He drew his 9 mm, flicked off the safety, and held it at the ready as he started walking across the field toward the barn. If someone was inside, they had surely heard him drive up, but Ronnie still didn’t call out. He wanted to hold on to whatever surprise might be left to him.
He took up a position against the wall next the door, just like cops did in the movies. Cops did it in real life, too, in order to avoid catching a bullet in the chest by being an over-eager asshole. He held his breath and listened, but he heard no sounds of movement. He drew in a deep breath and entered the barn, ready to blast the shit out of anything that even looked like it was thinking of moving.
Damned good thing for Terry Birch that he was unconscious.
Ronnie hurried to the coroner’s side. He laid his weapon on the ground and then placed the fingers of his uninjured hand against the man’s neck. Even with the protective rubber barrier of his glove between them, the feeling of his flesh coming in contact with someone else’s turned Ronnie’s stomach. But he felt a pulse, a strong one.
Terry groaned and slowly opened his eyes. He looked up at Ronnie, but he must’ve had trouble focusing, for he squinted and said, “Lenora?”
Lenora, as in Cross? What the hell did she have to do with anything? Though Ronnie had nothing against Lenora up to that moment, she was Marshall’s daughter, so he decided to begin despising her too.
“It’s Ronnie Doyle, Dr. Birch. Are you okay? What happened?”
Terry struggled to sit up and Ronnie helped him. It meant touching the man again, which in turn meant a new wave of nausea. But Ronnie was a deputy sheriff. He would endure.
“Bitch hit me in the head with a goddamned knife handle, that’s what happened. Goddamned cunt.” He reached up gingerly to touch his head. He expertly probed the wound for several moments before lowering his hand. “I’ll live, which is too bad for her. When I catch up to the backstabbing little cooz, I’m going to slice her throat from ear to ear and piss in the opening.”
Only a couple days ago, Terry’s foul invective would’ve shocked Ronnie, but now he took it in stride. He was a man who had quite
literally been pushed too far.
Ronnie helped the doctor to stand. “Wherever Lenora is, do you think Marshall is there, too?” he asked.
Terry frowned. “She’s gone to Sanctity. And yes, Marshall’s headed there as well.”
Ronnie smiled. “Would you like a ride?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“You must lie down here and rest.” Marshall drew back the covers and stepped away from the huge, canopied king-size bed. He looked at Debbie, but she didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him. She kept looking around the bedroom, taking everything in. Joanne didn’t blame her. Marshall’s quarters were something to see.
Globes of various sizes and types filled his chambers, and his bedroom was no exception. There was a large globe on a support base in the corner, and two smaller ones on the nightstands flanking the bed. On the walls were framed mariners’ maps, paper crinkled, colors faded. Joanne had no doubt they were original and not reproductions, and she wondered how old they were. In another corner was a glass display case containing nautical navigation tools — sextants, compasses, spyglasses, and the like.
Marshall noticed Joanne’s interest. “I’ve rarely had the opportunity to travel outside the county.” For a moment, it looked as if he might add more, but instead he turned to Debbie again. “Please lie down. You need to rest. You’ll be safe here. I swear upon my life.”
Marshall raised his hand and took a step toward Debbie, as if he intended to guide her to the bed, but the woman shied away. She’d followed them docilely enough from the car into Sanctity, and she’d trailed after them down the corridors of the mansion, head turning back and forth as she gazed at everything with the wide-eyed wonder of a child. But she’d become more hesitant as they approached Marshall’s quarters, and she’d withdrawn almost completely after they entered his bedroom. Joanne couldn’t blame her. There was an incredible amount of history between the two, and it was only to be expected that Debbie would be uncomfortable being in Marshall’s bedroom, even with Joanne present.