Alex examined the picture and shook his head. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s difficult to see, but the cut was made at the joint, here. The vast majority of people who slit their wrists cut themselves in the more fleshy area.” She pointed just below the palm on her own hand. “Here or perhaps here.”
“To get the job done.”
“Right. But the lacerations in Diane’s wrists are deep enough that at one point she was sawing into her radius bone.”
Alex winced.
“Here’s the real problem, though. By the time she hit bone, she would have severed enough tendons to render her hand next to useless.”
“She couldn’t have slit her other wrist unless someone else was there to do it for her.”
“Not only that,” Dorothy cut in, “but it looks like the eyes were the first to go.”
Alex shuddered. “Anything from the toxicology you had done?”
Dorothy’s eyes fixed on the screen. “All negative. I can tell you that she smoked and drank, but otherwise she was clean.”
“The razor we found by the tub, could it have done that kind of damage?”
“No, this cut looks like it was done with a thicker blade—an exceptionally sharp hunting knife maybe. But then again, it’s hard to tell, since I don’t have the body anymore or a knife to compare it to. I only have my notes and my memory to go on now.”
Alex tapped a pencil against his forehead, an old schoolboy habit. “Why would she have done this to herself?” he muttered. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either. But there’s more.” Dorothy clicked the remote again. “I found some tiny bruising behind her neck. Now, initially I dismissed them since they were consistent with bruising from a vigorous massage.”
“I’m pretty sure the sheriff wasn’t giving Diane any erotic massages. But I guess you never know. He did say they were trying to patch things up near the end.”
“But it gets a whole lot weirder,” Dorothy said. “Look closely at the bruise pattern.”
Alex leaned forward.
“You see that?” she asked.
“A hand print?”
Dorothy slipped her right hand behind her own neck.
Alex spun to face her incredulously. “You saying she held her own head underwater?”
“Looks that way.”
“It’s also possible that someone else was there that night. If so, they would have had to do one bang-up job to make this look like a self-mutilation/suicide. If you’re right, then she knew this person, and knew them well.”
Dorothy turned the light on and gathered the pages from the file. She was wearing the reading glasses with the beaded string she liked so much and for a moment, she looked to Alex like an old lady clearing away her winnings after a good night at bingo. She placed the bulging folder back into the filing cabinet.
Alex fished out a folder labeled death certificate.
Dorothy’s eyes followed him.
“So I guess believing Diane did this to herself is kinda like believing in the magic bullet that killed Kennedy,” Alex said.
“On the whole,” she said, “the case does look like a suicide.” She paused and Alex looked up at her. “But you’re right, there’s certainly room for… doubt.”
He continued watching her, still not satisfied.
“Look,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Everyone involved, including the sheriff—hell, especially the sheriff—wanted things to be neat and tidy. I guess at the time and under the circumstances, I just wasn’t ready to dig deeper.” She looked up at him sheepishly. “It was a mistake, I admit that now, and it’s haunted me ever since.” She turned away, and her voice took on a different tone. “Alex, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“No. No, you don’t.” She was right. He knew of the affair. Hell, everyone did. It had been a long time in the making and had begun shortly before Diane’s death. For a brief moment, a horrible thought crossed his mind. What if Dorothy and Sheriff Crow were both in on it? Maybe he had been watching too much reality TV, although he had to admit it would have been the perfect crime. One of the most powerful men in town, partnered with the only other person who could expose his crime. He swept away the idea. But the thought had left him with a startling realization. If somehow Diane didn’t do this to herself, then the one who did was still out there.
Alex stood, shaky at first, but trying hard not to show it. Dorothy walked him out to his cruiser and into a blinding burst of mid-afternoon sun. She held her clipboard up over her eyes.
“Alex, don’t let Sheriff Crow know what you’re up to.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“He still doesn’t accept that her passing was anything but a suicide,” she said.
“I might not accept it either if I was the sheriff and my wife was murdered.”
“Just remember,” she said, crossing her arms emphatically, “no matter how much you respect him, no matter how much you look up to him, he’ll never be your friend on this one. You’re alone.”
Alone, Alex thought wryly. Nothing new there.
She walked over and hit him playfully with her clipboard. “Okay, now get outa here before I call the real cops.”
Smiling weakly, he removed his nightstick and slid behind the wheel of his cruiser. Sheriff Crow’s face had melted away, but he couldn’t completely erase the picture of the sheriff’s wife in the bath, slumped over, glaring back at him from two empty sockets. But somehow the residual effect of Dorothy’s slide show seemed far worse. That night, standing by the tub, the whole scene had felt surreal. He replayed the pictures of the bathroom in his head. The slides—some black and white, others stark and blurry—had felt ultra real. And for a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, they felt more vivid lately than they ever had.
Chapter 4
By the time Lysander found his first class, the halls had become a wasteland of crumpled papers and loose candy wrappers. He reached for the door, his pulse pounding in his neck. He was not getting off to a great start to the school year. Not only was he late, but now he had to make a grand entrance in front of everyone. As he stepped inside, thirty-five sets of eyes scanned him up and down. They were whispering, their low murmurs melding with the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. Mr. Bennett had just finished writing his name on the blackboard, right under English 412. With an unsteady hand, Mr. Bennett flicked chalk dust out of his salt and pepper hair and fumbled through his jumble of papers.
“Mr. Shore, I presume?”
Lysander nodded.
Mr. Bennett pointed impatiently toward the back corner of the room, near an oversize map of Massachusetts.
“Over there, Mr. Shore.”
With the class’s attention glued on him expectantly, Lysander tripped over some smart ass’s outstretched foot and stumbled into the desk in front of him.
The class exploded in a pent-up fit of laughter, no doubt brewing since his big black boots first set foot inside class. Only one girl didn’t join them. He slid uneasily into the seat next to her, blushing and feeling microscopically small. He nodded at her in appreciation. Her large eyes flashed knowingly.
“Looks like you and I are the only Goths within a fifty-mile radius?” he whispered.
Her expression changed. “Goth? No, I’m Wiccan.”
“Oh.” He held out his hand. “I’m Lysander.”
She took it, and Lysander was struck by how delicate her hand was.
“I’m Sam,” she said, smiling. “Ignore these assholes. They’ve never seen anyone with taste before.”
A large, sweaty hand landed on Lysander’s shoulder from behind. At the other end of it was what looked like a boy in a man’s body.
Sam leaned over. “That’s Derek.” The man—boy smiled. Lysander returned the gesture, not certain he had any other choice.
Slowly, the laughter died down.
Mr. Bennett stood with his clipboard perched atop his belly. “Now since this is your first day bac
k and since we do have some students who are new to Millingham High, I would like everyone to come up, one at a time, and tell us a little bit about yourselves, your interests, what makes you tick, some of the things you did this summer perhaps.”
The class grew uncharacteristically quiet.
Mr. Bennett fixed his hair again. “Are there any brave souls among us? Or should I pick one of you at random?”
The students eyed one another with uncertainty.
“Fine,” Mr. Bennett said matter-of-factly. “We’ll start with you, then.”
Lysander scanned the room, looking for Mr. Bennett’s victim.
“Come now, Mr. Shore, tell us a bit about yourself.”
Lysander stood on numb legs, and headed toward the front of the classroom, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets to keep them from shaking.
“Name’s Lysander Shore…”
“Louder!” someone shouted from the back.
“My name is Lysander Shore,” he said emphatically. “Moved here from Hayward a week ago. Wasn’t looking to move really, but then again, we didn’t have much choice after some a-hole sent a Molotov cocktail through my bedroom window.”
The class stirred uncomfortably.
He was about to elaborate, but he never got the chance. His eye was caught by a gorgeous blonde seated before him, her hair long and golden and flowing, her skin bronzed from hot summer days by the pool. He stumbled when he saw she was staring right at him, hanging on his every word. His cheeks felt hot. She looked like a goddess.
Beside her, two eyes, like red-hot pokers, were burning into him. They belonged to a guy with a bulky frame and semi-brush cut. He looked like he was all business and very little pleasure. In spite of the heat, he was wearing a sports jacket, his name etched in gold and red lettering: Chad.
“You look at Summer one more time, freak,” Chad growled. “Just one more time, I dare ya!” Next to Chad was a boy, broad and tanned just like him: another extra from CSI: Miami. Except his lips were pulled back in a dark, menacing grin.
Lysander stood frozen. He felt the palms of his hands turn wet, and the drumbeat in his neck thumped wildly.
“Leave him alone, Chad,” the beautiful blonde girl said. She had stuck up for Lysander and his pleasure at what she’d done must have showed on his face because the next thing he knew Chad was on his feet charging.
“Cha—” Lysander never managed to get it all out before something knocked the wind out of him. It was a left hook from Chad, right to the gut and a matching crack in the face so the lesson was learned. Lysander crumpled to his feet, hitting his head on the dusty, cool floor. He could see dust bunnies rolling around under Mr. Bennett’s desk.
The next thing he knew Samantha was screaming bloody murder. From the corner of his swelling eye, Derek was grappling with Chad. A crowd had gathered around Chad versus the giant boy. Mr. Bennett nudged between them to break it up. A skinny, awkward kid with a healthy dose of acne bent down and helped Lysander off the floor. Chad reached out a hand to grab him, but Derek blocked the move and sent him tumbling over a row of desks. Chad was about to get what he had coming to him and Lysander wanted to be there to cheer Derek on, but Lysander was quickly whisked away. Lysander hadn’t said more than two words to either Chad or Derek and it seemed more than enough for one to want him dead and the other to save his life.
• • •
Lysander awoke later that afternoon looking into a pair of yellow eyes. His new cat, Necra, perched on his chest.
“Get off, Nec,” he groaned, feeling too sluggish to move her himself.
The cat hissed.
Lysander’s eyes snapped open.
Necra hissed again. Her lips peeled back, unsheathing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth.
“What’s wrong girl?” A staggering fear settled over him. His arms were under the covers, trapped. If she wanted to, the cat could flick one of her paws and blind him. He had never seen her behave like this before. They remained eye to eye for what felt like an eternity. Then Lysander blinked and Necra meowed, almost to say “you lose” and then darted off.
Lysander lay in bed, trying to convince himself to get up, when he heard his mother bellowing after him from downstairs. He ignored her for a second, and then grew curious. Had someone come over? Not Peter Hume, he hoped. No, the voice downstairs sounded deep and friendly and touched with a southern drawl. He dressed quickly to see who it was. Downstairs, he found his mother by the entrance, her face lit with a great big smile. A giggle escaped her lips, and the sound of it startled Lysander.
The man at the door looked old and soft. The first thought that came to Lysander was that he looked like Elmer Fudd.
He lifted his head and smiled at Lysander. Deep lines formed at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
“Lysander, this is our neighbor, Reverend… oh, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Oh, don’t be. It’s Small…Reverend Nathaniel Small of the Bethlehem Baptist Church. You must be Lysander.” Light from outside danced off what looked like a silver ring on Reverend Small’s hand. In the center was the engraving of a fish. The same one Lysander had seen on so many bumper stickers. How did they go again?
Real men love Jesus
Are you following Jesus this close?
This fish won’t fry, will you?
“I run a small church down on Tuslow. You folks may have seen it. Looks more like a grocery store than it does a church.”
His mother nodded. “I know it. By the fire station.”
“That’s her,” Small said and flashed a set of mostly straight teeth. “We used to have a big old beauty three streets over, but not two years ago she burned right to the ground. ‘Lectrical fire.” He seemed to pause to consider this. “Would be awfully great to see you nice people down there on Sunday, so long as there aren’t other matters pressing you too hard.” He peered in at the packing boxes piled in the living room.
Reverend Small was still smiling when he withdrew a gold pocket watch. He snapped the lid open and gasped at the time.
“Now I’d be lying if I told you nice folks I wasn’t partially here on business. Mrs. Grady’s dog, from down the street, went off again last night after a raccoon or somethin’ and we haven’t seen him since. He’s one of them husky dogs, about yay high, white coat. You folks seen him ‘round?”
“No, we haven’t,” his mother said, concerned. “But we’ll sure keep an eye out.”
The reverend’s gaze fixed on Lysander’s black eye. “I hope you didn’t let anyone get the better of you there, son.”
His mother slid an arm around him and pulled him closer. “Lysander had a rough first day at school, that’s all. You know how kids are.”
The reverend smiled knowingly. “Regretfully, I have no children of my own, but our congregation is nearly burstin’ with ‘em. Most go to the local high school. So chances are good, young man, that you might just know one or two of ‘em.”
Reverend Small’s eyes flicked over his mother’s stomach. He grinned sheepishly. “My mother used to tell me that I was bolder than the print on the Sunday Times, so I hope you’ll forgive me, but I see you have a little one well on the way.”
His mother blushed, cupping the bulge in her tummy. “Seven months,” she said proudly.
“And what a beautiful little girl I’m sure she’ll be.”
Lysander’s mother nodded dreamily. “Yes, she will.”
The two of them burst into a gale of laugher that made the reverend’s face turn the color of a ripe tomato.
As he bid God bless and turned to leave—this time for real—Lysander couldn’t help thinking about something the old man had said, about there being other kids at church.
If that were true, and not a ploy to lure unsuspecting victims to Sunday service, there was a chance that Summer might be there as well. At the very least, it was worth a shot.
Chapter 5
When Lysander opened the door he found a panicked figure before him. Sam’
s eyes were wide with fear and her chest was heaving in greedy gulps of air. Without saying a word, she led him around the side of the house. Crouched down behind a thicket was Derek, the one in Mr. Bennett’s class who had given Chad a taste of his own medicine. His hands and fingernails were stained by what looked like motor oil or tar or… blood? Lysander took a quick step back.
“What happened?”
“Alex, one of my dad’s deputies, tried to take Derek in on a parole violation. When Alex tried to push me aside, Derek knocked him out. Look, can you help us?” Her hands were clasped in front of her, pleading.
He owed Derek. Owed him big time.
“Yeah, of course. You wanna stay in my garage or—”
“No, no,” Samantha said impatiently. “We have a place, an old house. We just need to borrow some stuff from you. I couldn’t think of anyone else, and we were already on our way here to see if you were okay.”
“What do you need?”
“Food, a sleeping bag, light…”
“All right,” he said and turned.
“Lysander,” she whispered, “please hurry. We don’t have long.”
Lysander’s heart was beating a fierce racket as he went back inside to gather the things Sam had asked for. If you included his first shining day at school, he had known Derek for a grand total of ten minutes. But already both he and Sam had stood up for him when he was in trouble. That had to count for something.
• • •
It was drizzling when they arrived. The house looked old and tired, imprisoned by the weeds and the overgrowth. Over the years a thick blanket of moss had crept up its walls, until the place didn’t look like a house so much as it did a living being. In the front yard, a tall pine resembled a thick and gnarled torso, its leafy branches brushing the roof. One of them intruded through a broken window. Lysander guessed the house was at least fifty years old, maybe even a hundred.
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