by Stephen Frey
“Hello, Jack,” I say politely when I reach them.
He looks over at me with a curious expression. “I’m sorry,” he says with his killer smile, “do I know you?”
We’ve met several times so this not-knowing-me thing is total crap. And I know Cindy’s told him all about me, if only to make him jealous when he gets back from one of his trips to Europe, during which she’s convinced he’s been cheating on her. She’s told me all about that, too. “I’m Sheriff—”
“Come on, Jack,” Cindy interrupts, stepping back from their embrace. “Don’t be rude.”
“Oh, right, right,” he says, like he finally remembers me but wishes he hadn’t. “You’re Summers, Sheriff Summers. But I can’t remember your first name.”
“Paul.” I hate the guy, his half-million-dollar Porsche, his dashing good looks, and his path to the Oval Office.
“Okay, Paul. Well, what are you doing here?”
“I thought there was a problem with the plumbing,” Cindy answers for me, “so I called him.”
Jack smiles slyly, like he’s enjoying this psychological cat-and-mouse. “So you called the sheriff? I would think you’d call a—”
“You know Paul’s always helped us with things like that. His whole department’s always been helpful to us that way.”
Jack gestures toward the maze. “Why would he take care of a plumbing problem out there?”
“We were just catching up,” she says guiltily. “We haven’t seen each other in so long. I was telling him how you’re going to be running for that Senate seat next year.”
Jack swells up like a peacock on the prowl.
Cindy’s so good.
He glances at me with a superior expression. “Yes, I am.”
She looks up at him. Jack’s a couple of inches taller than her but several inches shorter than me. “Why didn’t you call?” she asks. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I wanted to surprise you.” He smiles at me. “I thought it might be … well, fun.”
“Are you still going to Europe tomorrow morning?”
“Yes.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“Well,” I finally say, “I better get going.”
“Oh, too bad,” Jack says. “Well, ciao.”
“Yeah, ciao.”
He chuckles. “If we have any more plumbing problems, we’ll be sure to call.”
“Yeah, okay.” I’d love to have five minutes alone with him in a place where money has nothing to do with anything and I wouldn’t be hauled off to jail after the outcome. “Bye, Cindy,” I mutter as I pass her.
I’m seething as I steer the Cherokee down the hill, over the river, and out the long Prescott driveway toward 681. Jack Harrison was having too much fun back there at my blue-collar expense.
My cell phone rings. It’s Cindy.
“What?”
“Sorry about that,” she whispers. “I had no idea he was coming. I don’t think he’s even staying the night. He’s got a 9:00 a.m. flight to London tomorrow. He won’t want to drive four hours to the airport in the morning. He’d have to get up at three o’clock and he hates doing that.”
“Why do you make him think you love him?” I demand.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you hug him like that?”
“I have to, he’s suspicious of me. He might think something’s up if I don’t. And I don’t want to get beaten,” she says, her voice turning indignant.
As if I’m the bad person for not understanding. “Leave him, Cindy.” My head’s spinning. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but our walk intoxicated me. It made me realize how wonderful it would be with her. Somehow I managed to resist Cindy’s attempt to seduce me again, but now I’m regretting being such a good husband again. “Tell him right now.” There’s ten seconds of dead air. “I’ll turn around and come back,” I offer. “I’ll protect you.” More silence. “Cindy?”
“I can’t, Paul,” she finally answers. “I just can’t. You and I both know that.” She pauses for a few seconds. “Maybe you shouldn’t come over here anymore this weekend. Okay? Now good-bye.”
6
I’M IN THE living room reading Moby-Dick and Vivian’s in the kitchen washing dishes. In the “miracles never cease” category, she’s being nice, incredibly nice. Which is truly amazing after what happened last night, coupled with the fact that Cindy’s in town.
It turns out Vivian did go to Heather’s place down in Gatlin last night, then got up this morning and drove straight from there to work at the washette. At least, that’s the story I’m getting. I told her when I got home that she should have called to say she was all right, because I was worried about her. She hugged me tightly and almost cried. I felt bad. It’s been a long time since I’ve said that to her and everyone needs to hear it once in a while, even Vivian. Then I told her I loved her and that I was sorry, too—which made her cry harder.
She spent an hour fixing what turned out to be a pretty decent meatloaf along with mashed potatoes and creamed spinach—which are my two favorite sides. During dinner she sat close to me and asked me about my day, something she hardly ever does.
“Here, honey,” she says, breezing into the living room. “I got these for you, too.”
She puts a plate down in my lap and on it are two chocolate-covered doughnuts, which are my favorite dessert in the world. She runs her fingers through my hair as I take the first delicious bite, and her touch feels good. She leans down and kisses me, then turns to go.
I catch her hand and pull her back. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?”
She smiles and puts a hand to her chest. “Why what do you mean, Sheriff Summers?”
God, if she were just like this all the time. “You’re being so … so nice tonight.”
“Why shouldn’t I be nice? I live in a nice house with a nice man who takes very nice care of me.”
Guilt surges through me and I take a deep breath. “I really am sorry about last night, Viv. That was so awful. I don’t know why I—”
“Shhh.” She puts her fingers to my lips. “Let’s not talk about it.”
I caress her hand for a moment. “Where were you today?” I shouldn’t ask this right now, but I can’t help it. That’s just how I am. I’m always trying to fit the pieces together even when I shouldn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when I got home you weren’t here. In fact, you didn’t get home until after seven-thirty.” It’s almost ten o’clock now. We didn’t finish dinner until nine-thirty. “The washette closes at four on Fridays in the winter, right?”
“Yeah,” she says hesitantly.
It’s not like she’s got a lot of places to go in Bruner other than the washette. She’s certainly not going to the Kro-Bar or the Bruner Saloon for a beer by herself. Maybe she was picking up what she needed for dinner and maybe she had to go all the way over to Superior to get it. Ike runs out of things a lot at his store. “Well?”
“I was just, I was just, um …” Her voice trails off when the phone rings.
I don’t want to answer, but I have to, because that’s part of the covenant that comes along with being the county sheriff. Picking up a phone even when you don’t want to. “Hello,” I say curtly.
“Sheriff! Sheriff, it’s me Davy! Oh, God, oh, God, you gotta get out here right away.”
It’s my deputy Davy Johnson and he sounds like he’s having a complete breakdown. “What’s the matter?” I snap, sitting straight up in my chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Get out here, Sheriff. Get out here fast!”
“Where?”
“The Prescott estate. Hurry!”
I don’t tell Vivian where I’m going. I just grab my coat and gun and race for the door. The drive to the Prescott estate seems to go on forever but it actually takes less than ten minutes.
When I get there I skid to a stop in front of the main entrance, behind Davy’s squad car. I jump out and tak
e two quick steps for the door, then come to a sudden, slippery stop. In the Cherokee headlights I spot a strange-looking pair of footsteps leading toward the entrance. They start right about where I jumped out, now that I look back. They weren’t here this afternoon, I’m sure of it. They aren’t Davy’s, either, because I can see exactly where he got out of his car up ahead. And in the light coming from the mansion’s entrance and my headlights I can see where his footprints and this strange pair collide on the way to the door. They’re strange because they’re deep, wide, don’t seem to have defined toes or heels, and in some places they don’t even look like footprints—just deep depressions in the snow. It’s as though two or three people, maybe more, walked carefully in the same spots. It’s as if they were trying to disguise their numbers.
Davy’s on his hands and knees in the foyer, waves of sickness overtaking him as I rush through the main door. He manages to gesture toward the living room, then another tremor shakes his stomach. I sprint past him, then freeze when I see Cindy. She’s on her back, naked, eyes wide open. Her arms and legs are spread wide, her hands and feet are nailed to the floor, her throat is slashed from ear to ear, and blood is pooled around her beautiful, terrified face. There’s a ring of extinguished candles encircling her body and what looks like a crude pentagram carved into her forehead. I sink to my knees and bring my hands to my mouth. As I do, I notice a crumpled piece of paper on the floor under a chair near her body, at the edge of the blood pool.
I crawl to the paper, pick it up and slowly unfold it. It’s a dry-cleaning ticket from the Bruner Washette.
7
I CALLED THE state’s crime scene investigation team in Superior as soon as I could think straight, as soon as I could calm my trembling fingers enough to accurately push the buttons on my cell phone, as soon as I could turn my back on the grizzly scene on the living room floor: Cindy’s body splayed out before me crucifixion-style on the floor, outstretched hands and feet nailed to the stained hardwood slats, a pentagram carved into her forehead.
They came roaring up to the house a few minutes before midnight and even they were shocked at what they saw. I could tell by their expressions. I could tell by the way they didn’t look straight at her body at first but glanced at it sidelong while they put on their latex gloves and blue paper masks. That told me volumes because they see a lot.
I called Bear right after I called the CSI guys. He rolled out of bed immediately and came straight to the mansion. I told him he didn’t have to but he did. I’d like to think it was mainly to give me support, not only with the investigation but emotionally as well. He knows more about Cindy and me than anyone. Of course, he also came because he wants to be in the middle of things. He wants to be able to say he was at the crime scene so he has more credibility with the locals when he doles out the details he’ll undoubtedly dole out—even though he shouldn’t.
Cindy’s murder is by far the biggest thing that’s ever happened in Dakota County, and Bear spreads rumors almost as indiscriminately as Mrs. Erickson does. In subtler ways, of course, but he does. And, like I said, this is Bruner’s case of the century. We’ve had murders here before—three in the last fifteen years—but they’ve always involved locals killing locals. This one involves a River Family. People will be dying to get any detail about what happened, especially because it’s February and they’re thirsting for anything that will distract them from their cabin fever.
The coroner took Cindy’s body away at ten o’clock this morning. I left the estate shortly after that but the crime scene people are still out there. They’re still scouring the mansion and the grounds for clues. I had to get to the precinct, so I left Bear in charge. He hung around for another hour, then he had one of the other deputies come out and take over for him. It isn’t official, but Bear’s the number-two guy on the force and the other deputies don’t seem to have a problem with that. At least, none of them have ever said anything to me about it.
I stopped by the house on my way into town to shower and change, and Vivian couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful. She had a crisply pressed uniform laid out for me on the bed when I came out of the shower and a thermos of fresh coffee waiting for me downstairs on the kitchen table. She never once asked what had happened and I didn’t say. But she knew, I could tell.
“So what are you doing, Paul?” Lewis Prescott asks in a low monotone. “I want a full rundown.”
Cindy’s father sits in front of my office desk at the precinct. He’s a thin, wiry man of average height. Sixty-three years old with straight white hair, he’s got perfectly trimmed salt-and-pepper eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and a patrician nose that’s spiderwebbed with tiny blue veins after years of drinking scotch. He’s dressed in sharp, preppy clothes, and there’s a dark plaid scarf draped around his neck with a Brooks Brothers tag staring me in the face.
Prescott took a helicopter up here from Minneapolis after I called him to break the news about Cindy at around nine-thirty this morning, a half hour before they took her body away. The chopper landed in a vacant lot up the street, much to the fascination of a crowd of locals. Prescott’s eyes are red-rimmed and he seems devastated. Maybe he’s not as cold a man as I thought he was, but you never know. It could all be an act.
“We’re doing everything we can,” I answer. Prescott and I are alone in my office. “The crime scene people are still out at the estate. You can’t go out there until they’re done.” I take a deep breath. It’s past one in the afternoon and I’ve been awake for more than thirty hours. “They’re good people,” I continue. “They’ll find anything the killer—” I interrupt myself because “killer” sounds so awful. “Anything that’s there to be found,” I finish. Why do I have compassion for this man? He’s never had any for me. “Have you spoken to Jack?”
Prescott shakes his head. “He left for London early this morning on business. As you know, he came up here yesterday, then drove back to the Twin Cities in the afternoon so he could catch his flight. I haven’t been able to reach him yet, but I’m sure he’ll take the first plane back when I do.” Prescott’s voice had been soft and subdued since he sat down in the chair on the other side of my desk, but now it grows stronger.
There’s something more Prescott wants to say, something important. It’s obvious by the way he’s fidgeting.
He checks his watch. “He should be back in Minneapolis by tomorrow at some point.”
That wasn’t it. That was just filler. He’s still fidgeting.
He glances at my closed office door, then at me. “Paul, is there anything you want to tell me while we’re alone?”
I’m taking a sip of Vivian’s coffee. Most of the time I throw it away the few days a month she makes it for me, because it’s basically undrinkable. I take it with me in the truck to make her feel good, but most mornings I end up pouring it in the office sink because it’s so bad. This morning it’s okay, though. I’m on my second cup.
I look up over the Styrofoam through the steam. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
I put the cup down. “No, I don’t,” I say firmly.
Prescott grinds his teeth, like he didn’t think it was going to be this hard to get me to say what he wants me to say. Like he doesn’t have this problem with his multitude of subordinates at the trading company and he’s irritated that I’m not as tuned in to him as they are. “You were at the estate yesterday. You were the last person to see Cindy alive.”
“Her killer was the last person to see her alive.”
“You know what I mean, Paul. You were at the estate yesterday afternoon.”
I stare into Prescott’s eyes, fighting the urge to look away. “I was there yesterday morning. She called me and begged me to go out there,” I continue. “When she called me I was with Billy Brock. He’s one of my—”
“I know who that moron is, for Christ—”
“I was out east on Route 7,” I interrupt right back. “We were in the middle of a routine traffic stop.”
I don’t want to tell him about the bonfire, the burned goat skull, or the knife. He’ll find out about the pentagram carved into Cindy’s forehead soon enough, but I don’t want him jumping to conclusions about a cult when the investigation’s only a few hours old. “I went to the mansion because she asked me to go there, because she told me there was a broken pipe.”
“A broken pipe,” Prescott echoes under his breath, spitting the words out like they’re last week’s sour milk. “I spoke to Jack yesterday afternoon and he told me that you and Cindy were going at it outside the mansion when he got there. He said she was crying, that she was very upset. He said it was a good thing he got there when he did because it looked like you might have done something to her.”
“What?” This is ridiculous. “She called me on my cell phone to—”
“Am I going to find a broken pipe when I go out there, Paul?”
Jack must have told Prescott there was nothing wrong. The problem here is that Prescott will never let himself think that Cindy would ever initiate anything intimate between us. He never has. That would be beneath her, in his mind. “Check my cell phone,” I say confidently, pulling it out of my pocket. I lean forward and put it down in front of him. “Check the list of received calls. She called me, I didn’t call her. She called me from a land line at the mansion. The call’s there. You’ll see it, you’ll recognize the number.”
He puts on his reading glasses, snatches the cell phone off my desk, and scrolls through the menu. “Don’t see it,” he announces triumphantly, tossing the phone back down on my desk so it disappears into a pile of papers.
I grab it and scroll through the list myself. Jesus, I got so many calls last night that Cindy’s is gone from the memory. I’m so tired I forgot that it only shows the last twenty calls. “I’ll get the records. You’ll see it.”
“What were you doing at the estate?” Prescott asks accusingly. “What were you really doing there?”
“I told you why I went out there,” I answer evenly. “I was there when he got to the place all right, but Cindy and I weren’t arguing. He’s making all that up. He’s the one who’s lying.”