Atonement

by Winter Austin

While the father relayed his information, Nic jotted it down in shorthand on a small notepad.

  “I’m sure the town gossip has gotten back to you on the deaths of two more people.”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes, Seth Moore and Giselle Tomberlin.”

  “Were they members?”

  “Seth visited a few times and then moved along to something else.”

  “Do you recall when he did that?” Nic asked.

  “Well, it wasn’t long after he finished restoring that old house. It was recently. Maybe within the last month or so. He might have signed the guest registry. I could check.”

  “That would be helpful. What about Giselle?”

  “Giselle grew up in this church. She was such a sweet child. I can’t imagine what demons plagued her to make her think death was a solution.”

  The catch in Father Evans’s voice as he spoke of Giselle tripped up Nic’s writing progress. No, she wouldn’t be taken in by the sincerity and emotion.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Oh my, it’s been a few years.”

  “You do realize she wasn’t a child?”

  He stared at her, unblinking, seemingly trying to read her mind. “Deputy Rivers, every person who walks through those doors and enters this sanctuary is a child of God, no matter the age or size. I see them as God wants me to see them, as one of His own coming for the assurance of forgiveness.”

  What a load of crap. She wanted to blurt that but knew she had to resist that urge or he would clam up.

  “You don’t accept my statement, do you?”

  She snorted in derision. “Father, I’m not here to talk about what I accept and don’t accept.” She moved along, hoping to deter him. “Did the Walkers know Ms. Tomberlin or Seth Moore? And vice versa?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. This is a large congregation and many of the parishioners are related to one another. But those four, I never saw in the same circles.” He rested his arm along the back of the pew and bent forward. “You have a jaded tone to your voice. Were you once one of the faithful, Deputy Rivers?”

  Somewhere a door opened and clapped shut. There was her cue to get the heck outta here before he pushed the truth right out of her. Closing the notepad, she stashed it inside her jacket and stood.

  “Thank you for your time, Father. You’ve been helpful.”

  She scooted into the aisle and moved to leave.

  “Deputy Rivers.”

  Stopping midstride, she turned to the father. He had stood as well but remained between the pews.

  “I sense a darkness coming. Something bad is happening in this town, and it seems to be dragging you into its fold.”

  “I’m a cop. Bad happens around me all the time, Father.”

  “This is different. You have a choice to make: fight it, or let it consume you. I fear you will make the wrong decision and those closest to you will suffer the consequences.”

  Fear rippled through Nic. She banished it as quickly as it came. He was trying to scare her if nothing more than to get her inside these walls and into his clutches.

  “Then let Satan have a field day. I did my time—what’s a few more days of living in hell?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nic stopped at the Killdeer Pub for lunch after putting in a call to Cassy and Agent Asshole to meet her there. Nic wasn’t sure she’d ever think of the fed as anything other than what she called him. He was a General worshiper and that seriously grated. Maybe she should set him straight on the great Brigadier General William Rivers, retired.

  Then again, why the hell bother? Hunt was sold on the facade The General wanted the world to see. Their father even sold it to Cassy. But not Emma. No, Emma saw right through his crap, and yet she still remained with the man. Nic couldn’t tell if that was true love or pure stupidity, and considering how well she thought of Emma, it better not be the latter.

  Patrick served her ginger ale, told her he’d be back as soon as the rest of her party showed up, then hurried off to take care of his other tables.

  Sipping the carbonated drink, Nic mulled over what little she’d learned from Father Evans and Doc Drummond. Moore’s more natural approach to his ailments and the strong belief in never taking synthetic drugs clashed with his technology and video-game junkie persona she and Con discovered in the house.

  But this revelation of his non-drug use would go a long way to proving Nic’s theory on assisted suicides. Agent Hunt better come through on the tox screens.

  As it had so many times in the field and on missions, the atmosphere shifted, and malice oozed around Nic. Setting the glass on the table, she peered at the crowded pub, studying each person there. No one seemed overly interested in her. They hadn’t exactly greeted her with handshakes and nods of approval when she arrived. But this sensation was different. She had felt it before when things went to hell for her, and it usually resulted in someone physically attacking her.

  The last time this happened she’d been with Aiden in a village that was hiding a Taliban fighter, who came from a group that had terrorized the people, raping some of their women to gain power over them. The fighter had chosen a time when Aiden separated from Nic to attack her. This hyper-awareness saved her skin so often, she never discounted it.

  By the time she thought to get up and move around the pub’s dining area, the sensation fled. Nic blinked, flopping back against the booth seat. The shock of it was unnerving. She hadn’t found the source, and this would lead to her being on alert at all times. Which would aggravate the PTSD.

  A shadow passed over her table, jerking her to attention. Patrick’s frown wrinkled his forehead and made the twenty-something look older. He glanced back at the door leading to the kitchen and then slid into the seat across from her.

  “It’s kind of busy for you to just be taking a break,” she said.

  “Farran won’t mind when I explain why. Is something wrong? You acted like I scared you when I was walking past.”

  Nic’s brows furrowed as she stared at Patrick. The kid was too well-tuned to her moods. “I was caught up in what I was thinking about. You just startled me.”

  “Anything you can tell me about?”

  “Not officially, no.”

  The put-out look on his face horse-kicked Nic in the gut. Why was he upset that she wasn’t talking to him? It wasn’t like he was her sole confidant. She opened her mouth to assure him it wasn’t anything personal when his face shifted into a beaming smile.

  “That’s fine. Thought maybe you needed to vent some frustrations.” He gave her a wink and left the booth.

  Nic gaped at his retreating back. What the hell just happened? Laughter penetrated her confused mind. Her gaze darted to the front of the pub, where the laughter originated. A familiar face in a sea of locals brought her to her feet. Abandoning her drink, Nic slid around the tables and bodies, cutting as direct a path as she could toward that man. When he noticed her coming, anger replaced the humor on his face.

  “Where the hell have you been, Deputy Walker?” Walker was out of uniform, appeared to have been enjoying too much alcohol in the last twenty-four hours since she’d seen him, and from the smell, he hadn’t bothered to shower, either.

  “Last time I checked you weren’t my boss.”

  Her knuckles cracking, she inched forward. “We’re in the middle of the busiest tourist time for Eider. You’re not at your post, and we’re shorthanded while you’re off having a pity party because you can’t get your way.”

  The folks near them went silent. Nic could feel their gazes boring holes into her.

  Walker swept his shirttails aside and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Come to think of it, I ain’t had my proper time to grieve for my dearly departed cousin and his wife. Seeing as that can affect my performance, until I’ve taken proper steps to get my mind back on the job, I’m not fit for duty.”

  “I went to war with better men who lost friends and still managed to fulfill their duties. So don’t
feed me that line of BS.”

  White, mottled spots appeared on his reddened face. “You murdered Dusty.”

  “You’re a moron.”

  His hands twitched then slid out of the loops to his sides, curling into fists. Nic went on alert, shifting her weight, readying herself to draw her weapon. Would he be dumb enough to start a fight here in the pub? What the hell had he been drinking? Nic glanced at the patrons she could spot, noting their interested expressions. They were morons, too, for sitting here enjoying this.

  “You think you’re big stuff with that rifle. Killing people from far off,” Walker sneered. “Bet you never had to shoot someone up-close and personal.”

  The white noise of the room died in her head, and an eerie calm settled over her. He knew only what she’d allowed the public to know about her past. Sheriff Hamilton and the few town council members privy to the truth were under strict federal orders never to reveal what Nic actually did before moving to their town. The lone thing she kept from her discharge was that damn mandate.

  Protocol be damned. Time to go on defense and take this to a more private area. Invading Walker’s personal space—which he didn’t like, and he moved—she managed to steer him to the door while she got a hand on her weapon. Walker backed himself right up against the wood and pushed the door outward, stumbling outside. Nic followed, forcing him farther from the door and any prying ears and eyes.

  “What about you?” she said hoarsely. “Have you killed someone this up-close? Watched their life leave their eyes? Felt their blood coat your hands?”

  Walker’s face lost coloring, and he swallowed hard.

  “Ever felt your own life threatened so that you had no choice but to shoot everyone coming after you? I have. That tends to happen a lot when you’re walking around hostile areas where the locals would love nothing more than to murder you for simply being a marine with a gun.”

  Nic chanced a glance down to see that his hands had unfurled and he was trembling.

  “Not so tough now, huh?” She grabbed a handful of his shirt and jerked him closer. “Get your shit together, or I’ll make sure everyone knows what kind of a coward you are.” She released him with a shove.

  He lingered, staring at her hand that still gripped the gun butt. A smart man would realize she wasn’t about to drop her guard, but in the last few days Walker hadn’t shown a lick of intelligence. She’d given him an out; the next step would be arrest him or stop the threat, depending on his reaction.

  Finally, he turned, adjusted his shirt, and sauntered over to his truck, as if nothing bad had happened between the two of them. Nic’s eyes narrowed as she watched him get in and drive away. It wasn’t until his vehicle had disappeared around a corner that her hand left the gun. If only the hyper-awareness would leave so easily.

  The Killdeer’s silence—even the jukebox was void of music—made her hesitate in the entryway. All eyes were on her. An overwhelming urge to flip them the bird fell over her, but she wouldn’t do that to Maura or Con. Instead, she pulled a ten from her pocket, dropped it on the bar counter, and left.

  They got their show. No way in hell was she going to let them gather any more gossip from her meeting with Cassy and Agent Hunt.

  She’d just call and ask them to pick up the food and come back to the house. Home was safer.

  No encounters with stupid people. Or eerie feelings of something deadly watching her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Nic walked around her kitchen, studying the files laid out on the table while she munched on the remains of a burger. From the moment Cassy and Boyce brought the food into the house, she’d been going over each of these strange suicides, making notations on the sheets of paper next to each file. She ignored her sister’s attempts to find out if she’d learned anything new this morning or if Con was going to join them at any time. Nic was fully intent on burying herself in these files.

  Looking up, Nic found Cassy leaning against the door frame. The sisters were alone; Agent Hunt had split after receiving a cryptic call. His odd behavior was starting to grate. He was supposed to be assisting the McIntire Sheriff’s Department with these suicides, not dropping everything and bolting the moment his phone rang.

  He’d also spent a long time in secret discussion with Cassy. Her sister was agitated about something, but neither would speak loudly enough for Nic to overhear what was going on.

  “Was Giselle a stripper or a hooker? Or both?”

  Nic’s attention snapped back to Cassy. “What?”

  “Giselle Tomberlin. Her suicide note said she ‘sold her body for money,’ so which was it, stripping or hooking?”

  Nic had moved on to the now-cold fries. “Good question. I doubt it was hooking, since we don’t exactly have prostitutes working the street corners of Eider.”

  “No, but people find ways around that perception of a nice, clean town. Didn’t the note say she committed adultery, too?”

  “Yes, both of those professions result in the same thing.” Nic sniffed. “Wouldn’t good ole Father Evans be devastated to know that sweet Giselle was slutting around?”

  “That’s harsh, Nic, even for you.”

  Regret flashed through Nic, but she sloughed it off by shoving a pile of fries into her mouth. So what if she was capable of feeling bitchy? She had a right. Father Evans had rubbed her wrong, and people were in denial if they thought everyone in Eider was a good, solid citizen.

  “Is there a strip joint in town?” Cassy asked.

  “Not in Eider. There’s some place between Eider and Cornell. I haven’t been there. If they have trouble out there, Hamilton usually goes or sends Walker.”

  “You going out today to ask if she worked there?”

  Nic flicked through the autopsy report, eating more fries. “Con or Hunt should go. Places like that probably think I’m there for a job,” she said around the food.

  Cassy smiled. “You’re full of yourself.”

  A text message alert played. Nic dragged her cell phone out, glanced at it, then shoved it back into her jeans. Not hers. Cassy disappeared from the doorway.

  Nic picked up anther file and, again, read a portion she’d highlighted.

  Wound indicative of a self-inflicted gunshot. This from the coroner.

  Nic’s note in the margin:

  There is no medical or logical reason to prove Moore had any depression. In Moore’s emails with Sheila Walker, he wasn’t broken up over their affair or her trying to break it off; in fact, he was trying to make her stay with him. So why commit suicide?

  Why, indeed?

  And why would Giselle Tomberlin want to end it, too? People committed adultery every day and never had a regret about it.

  Finishing the fries, Nic tapped a finger on her empty hand against the Tomberlin case file. She didn’t like the idea of Con or Hunt going to that bar. In her experience, when it came to investigating someone at a strip club, men tended to get the old wink-wink treatment—“You overlook what I’m doing here, and I’ll scratch your back, or some other body part.” If one of them was going, she should be there, too.

  She glanced at her watch. Lunchtime was over.

  “I’m heading out,” she said, breezing past Cassy. “I’ve got rounds to make this afternoon, and maybe I’ll check into the strip bar.”

  “Thought you were leaving that up to Detective O’Hanlon or Agent Hunt.”

  Nic grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair and slid her arms into it. “Changed my mind. I’d have more luck than them.”

  “Because you’re a woman?”

  “And I can speak asshole real well. Oh look, The General did teach me something.” Nic popped a piece of cinnamon gum into her mouth, saluted Cassy, then banged out of the house.

  • • •

  Con pulled into The Golden Slipper lot and parked. The place was a dump. Rumor had it the building had once been a feed and grain store that went under sometime in the ’60s. Some enterprising gentleman bought the business and converted it i
nto a high-class establishment for the lonely. The gravel lot was usually half full of dirty pick-ups and rusted cars. About every two weeks, the sheriff’s department was called out to break up some kind of fight and make arrests.

  And Nic thought Giselle Tomberlin might have worked here.

  Con closed the door on his sister’s SUV—his truck would be ready later today—and squinted through his sunglasses at the ugly, yellow-painted building. Early in his police officer career, he had to track down a bail-jumper who was known to frequent The Golden Slipper before running from the law, and since then, Con hadn’t set foot inside the strip bar. For good reason.

  Leaning against a rickety support post, Nic waited for him. She looked damn good. How did the uniform companies manage to make the pants fit just right on a woman—snug enough to show off her curves but allow her freedom of movement?

  “Are you going to keep staring at me all day?” she barked.

  “Only if you want me to.” With a half-smile, Con joined her.

  Releasing an exasperated groan, Nic pushed the door open and went inside.

  The stench of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and cigarette smoke tried to cover up the heavy odor of marijuana. Con suppressed the urge to gag. He hated places like this. It seemed they were between girls since no one was on the stage. At this time of day, hardly anyone was here—most of the men who frequented the place were working, and they really should’ve been saving their money instead of wasting it in this dump.

  Maybe Nic was grasping at thin air.

  “What makes you think Giselle willingly exposed her body here?” he asked.

  “Desperate people do desperate things.” Nic snapped her gum. “I want to know what she was so desperate for she’d admit to selling her body for money.”

  “You said Doc Drummond told you she had a medical condition. These days, any kind of treatment will make you go bankrupt.”

  “Possible, but I think there’s more to it.” She moved through the scattered tables toward the bar.

  Con pulled up a stool next to her at the bar. The barkeep, a man with sleeve tattoos, stared at them from the far end like he had no intention of serving or even talking to them. A guy the barkeep was talking with gave Nic a lewd look. If she noticed, she didn’t react. Con’s blood pressure spiked.