by Kay Hooper
“Wait a second. This is Scott’s building. What—”
Her dog began pawing at the passenger-side door handle.
“Okay, okay. Let’s get out on this side.” She turned the Jeep off and got out, barely fast enough to avoid the near charge of her very strong dog.
He led her straight to the door of Scott Abernathy’s second-floor apartment.
Wondering what she was going to say, Trinity rang the bell. After a minute or two, she rang it again.
Braden looked up at her and whined softly.
Trinity banged on the door, beginning to feel more than a little worried. Scott was an avid runner, always ran early before work, and by her watch he should have been downing his orange juice now and getting ready to head out the door.
But there was no answer.
There wasn’t a front window for her to try to peer in, and Trinity hesitated only an instant before stepping to the side and carefully prying a loose brick from the facade. There was a key behind it.
“Don’t ask,” she said to her dog.
He lifted a paw to scratch at the door.
Trinity unlocked the door and went into the apartment, calling out, “Scott? It’s Trinity.”
No answer. And her voice nearly echoed, the way one’s did when nobody was home.
She was familiar with his place, and not only because she’d spent quite a few nights there a couple of years back. Scott hosted occasional parties; he enjoyed cooking and was good at it, so his friends were always happy to attend.
Even if he did make them clean up after.
The apartment was neat as a pin, a fact Trinity noted only in passing. Scott was neat as a pin; he was infamous for not being able to sleep if there were dirty dishes in the sink, and he expected people to actually use coasters.
Living room, neat. Kitchen, neat. Guest bathroom, very neat. Guest bedroom, very neat.
Master bedroom door closed. And locked.
Trinity banged on the door. “Scott? You all right?”
She put her ear to the door and listened but didn’t hear the shower running. If it had been running, she would have heard it. And by now, she was uneasy enough to really need confirmation that Scott wasn’t here, and if he wasn’t here, she damned well needed to know where he was.
She looked at the door handle, then stood on tiptoes and felt along the top ledge of the door frame, producing the odd little hooked emergency key designed mostly for situations in which young children locked themselves in bathrooms or bedrooms and didn’t yet know how to unlock the doors.
Trinity was able to unlock the door easily. But for some reason she could never explain afterward, she didn’t just barge in. She turned the door handle and pushed the door open.
She thought later how odd it was that after all his impatience, Braden sat just behind her in the hallway and never tried to go into the bedroom.
Trinity took one step in. She didn’t need to go any farther to see what there was to see. The bedroom was neat, bed made, everything in its place. Except for Scott. Dressed for his morning run, he was lying in an oddly twisted position on the rug at the foot of his bed. His head was turned, and his open eyes seemed to be staring straight at Trinity.
Except that they weren’t, because Scott was dead.
—
DR. RICHARD BEESON was hovering around retirement age but refused to give up medicine completely; being the coroner for Crystal County suited him. It was, mostly, an easy job, respectfully bagging up folks after accidents and helping morticians carefully wrap elderly “retirement home” residents in pristine white sheets for their trip to the mortuary.
He’d never handled a murder before. And he wasn’t too proud to share that information with Sheriff Trinity Nichols—whom he had delivered with his own hands thirty-odd years ago.
“I don’t see what he died of, Trinity. Body temp and rigor indicate he’s been dead no more than an hour. It was sudden, but he just had a complete physical with a stress test; his heart was in great shape, and so were his arteries. Told me he smoked a joint now and then, but that was it as far as recreational drugs went. I don’t think he lied to me about that.”
Trinity nodded. “He liked wine, but it was about taste, not getting drunk. Didn’t like losing control.” Unless it was for effect, for show. He could fake losing control with the best of them.
Unaware of her silent musings, Doc Beeson nodded in turn. “No health issues showed up in his physical, so I’m stumped. His head’s at an odd angle though not extreme, but seems to me if he’d fallen somehow, at least that rug would have a wrinkle or two in it.”
Trinity wasn’t tempted to laugh. “I thought the same thing, Doc. You’ll do the autopsy?”
He grimaced, which didn’t really change the expression of his thin, craggy face. “Man, I hate doing posts on people I delivered. Haven’t had to many times, ’specially considering how many babies I delivered over the years.”
“But you’ll do his autopsy.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Dammit. Meantime, I’ll get out of the way so Lexie and Doug can do their jobs.” He looked at her directly. “I know you got them trained special as crime scene technicians; you think Scott was murdered?”
Trinity chose her words carefully, even knowing with absolute certainty that Beeson was the soul of discretion. “I think that if you find something other than an accident or a natural death in the autopsy, I want all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed.”
“Guess I’d feel the same in your place. I’ll wait out in the living room.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Lexie Adams and Douglas Payne, who had been standing silently just inside the door holding their kits, nodded to the elderly doctor as he shambled past them.
It was Lexie who asked, “You want the works, Sheriff?”
Trinity nodded slowly. “Yeah. Photograph everything, print everything, take fiber samples. Scrape under his nails. Use every tool the FBI taught you to use. I want to know what happened here.”
“You bet, Sheriff.”
She stepped out of the bedroom, reasonably sure her young crime scene unit “team” would feel much more comfortable and assured if she wasn’t breathing down their necks while they worked. Not that she felt the need to do that; she had gone to considerable trouble and expense to make certain they were very, very well trained and able.
Doc Beeson was sitting on Scott’s sofa, leaning forward, elbows on his knees while he petted Braden. The doctor loved dogs, and Braden loved attention, so the bonding experience was no doubt keeping both of them calm.
Leaving the front door open, Trinity stepped out onto the walkway that dead-ended at Scott’s apartment. She leaned on the railing and looked around, the idle glance showing her that there was no one about, so no sign of undue notice. The mortician’s wagon hadn’t arrived yet; she had called to alert them but asked that they not come until later, and to be discreet.
Discreet. Oh, yeah. Right.
She reached into the pocket of her jacket, drawing out something that lay in the palm of her hand, glinting silver in the morning sunlight. Something she had seen herself before anyone else had arrived at Scott’s apartment.
Something she had, against all her training and police protocol, removed from Scott’s body. She’d seen the faint gleam between his slightly parted lips, vaguely puzzled at first because she knew Scott had no silver or gold caps on his teeth. And then she had realized it was something else.
A silver medallion. A cross.
She stared down at it for a long moment, then used her other hand to reach for her cell phone.
She had no idea where he was, since he was seldom in his office; for all she knew, she could have been dragging him out of bed somewhere.
She didn’t care.
She scrolled through her contacts and hit send. And wasn’t surprised when he answered on the first ring.
“Bishop.”
“Hey, it’s Trinity. We need to talk.”
Jan
uary 29
Deacon James had grown up in a small town, so he didn’t exactly feel out of place when he followed the winding mountain road out of fairly dense forest and rather suddenly into the three-block-long downtown area of Sociable, Georgia.
North Georgia.
Remote north Georgia.
And the town seemed to cling to the mountainside, a unique but surely impractical place on which to site a town.
Aside from that, it looked somewhat the way many small mountain towns looked, with the “major” local businesses on the relative flat of Main Street while smaller businesses as well as a scattering of apartment buildings, Victorian homes, and a few startlingly contemporary ones on climbing side streets appeared to perch precariously behind and above.
Probably have a hell of a view.
Because it was a one-side downtown; that was the real difference. Across the street was a fairly wide swath of well-kept grass striped with the occasional neat and carefully graveled path leading down a gentle but boulder-strewn slope to a wide and apparently shallow mountain stream, which, given its location, almost seemed even more than the town itself to defy gravity and sense.
The town had clearly taken advantage of what could only be used as a recreation area, providing across from Main Street scattered attractive shelters with picnic tables beneath, and benches, and the aforementioned well-kept paths, as well as at least two comfortably wide footbridges across the stream. There was even what was obviously a small park with swings and other rides for the kids plus a big jungle gym, an attractive wrought-iron fence with a gate for safety around the play area.
But there wasn’t much else on that side of Main Street, because there wasn’t a whole lot of room.
Beyond, on the other side of the stream, were a few smallish trees on an even more narrow strip of grass, a couple of benches facing the spectacular view from an as-close-as-you’d-want-to-get perspective, planting beds covered with mulch hinting at flowers to come in the spring—and then, bordered by a different and stronger wrought-iron fence to prevent a tragic slip, a pretty sheer drop to the bottom of the valley at least three hundred yards below. The valley stretched out for miles and seemed to be mostly pasture dotted with cows and horses, a few fields obviously farmed, and widely scattered older homes holding the people who farmed them.
With the mountains ringing the valley, it really did present an extremely attractive view. And no doubt a pleasant place to live for many reasons, among them the absence of any industry producing pollution of the air or groundwater, and a population small enough that most knew each other but not so small that there was nothing better to do than to nose into each other’s business. Most of the time, at least.
Still. It was an odd place to put a town, Deacon thought, but he had seen odder, especially along the Blue Ridge, with its old mountains and old towns that had sprung up generations ago around now long-defunct mining camps or trading posts, or to serve the many farmers in the valley—where tillable land was too valuable a resource to waste on businesses and official buildings that could easily perch on the mountainside above.
Well, not easily. But from a practical standpoint, if farming and ranching served the local economy well enough, then sensibly.
Deacon knew that many towns like Sociable pretty much depended on a local-driven economy supplemented by seasonal tourism sparked by this or that “festival” or other annual draw besides the scenery. Most such small towns, in these difficult economic times, struggled to remain viable, and most watched the younger generations move away after high school because there was so little to offer them in the way of a career or even a good, steady job that wouldn’t keep them in a small office or behind a counter for the rest of their lives.
But it appeared that Sociable was doing all right for itself, or at least all right enough that all the buildings Deacon could see on Main Street appeared to be attractive and occupied, at least surviving if not thriving. He couldn’t see a single vacant building, at least along the main drag. And there had to be some money about; he had passed both a high school and a middle school on the drive in, both newish and sprawling buildings less than five miles from downtown, both with well-designed and well-maintained athletic fields.
Probably the latest thing in tech as well. Couldn’t send your kids out in the world these days without education in all things digital, after all—even though plenty of kids knew a lot more about cutting-edge technology than did their parents because they’d grown up with so much of it in their lives.
Deacon had passed a couple of car dealerships, too. A few recognizable chain restaurants off the highway. A couple of small motels tucked away close to the highway, one at least outwardly respectable and one clearly the sort that charged by the hour.
He had also passed churches. Several churches.
And there was one downtown, perched high above Main Street, the highest visible point of downtown, the whiteness of its slender steeple almost shining in the afternoon light. Maybe watching over the town and valley below.
Maybe.
There was a bed-and-breakfast literally at each end of downtown, with a well-kept and attractive building housing a three-story hotel smack in the middle, which included a restaurant on the ground floor. There were numerous stores, at least three other restaurants or cafés, a couple of banks. A sheriff’s office apparently shared a fairly large building with the town post office and courthouse, and he could see at the far end of Main Street what looked like a fire station. There were two doctor’s offices visible, a pawnshop that looked less seedy than many, a bookstore, and two different coffee shops, one chain and one local.
He wondered idly which got the most business; it was difficult to tell at first glance.
Deacon, not making a community statement, parked in front of the first of the coffee shops he came to, mildly surprised to find no parking meters. He got out and closed the car door without bothering to lock it; his luggage was in the trunk, and Sociable really didn’t look like the sort of town where cars were jacked right off Main Street.
At least not in broad daylight.
He stretched absently, a bit stiff after the long drive, and looked around with casual interest for a few moments. There was a fair amount of activity in the area on this Thursday despite the January chill in the air, and as far as he could tell, no one paid him any special attention.
They were polite, though.
“Morning,” one middle-aged man said pleasantly as he walked past.
“Morning,” Deacon responded.
Not really a booming tourist town, Sociable, but the scenery and small-town charm did bring enough visitors that the arrival of one more clearly caused no particular notice.
Even now.
Which, Deacon thought, was a bit surprising. The people he saw went about their business, expressions preoccupied but not especially tense or uneasy. When two met in passing, they appeared to exchange casual greetings, but no one lingered to talk.
He would have expected that.
Then again, what he was seeing might very well be the citizens of Sociable being uneasy and on edge. Maybe they generally did stop and talk to each other, get coffee, shoot the breeze, discuss local events.
Like murder.
Deacon frowned a bit but decided to get out of the chilly air while he considered the matter. He went into the coffee shop, which he found to be typical of most he’d been in: small tables with minimalist chairs, a long banquette along one wall with evenly spaced tables in front of it, and in one rear corner a tall counter with glass cases showcasing various sandwiches and pastries. There was a drop to a lower counter on either end, where a customer ordered and then picked up said order.
There were signs advertising free Wi-Fi, and at least two customers sipped coffee or tea as they worked at laptops, while two others appeared to be reading, one with a hardcover and one with an e-reader. There were even three independent “stations” just past the banquette with laptops set up for customer use.
He settled into his chair and sipped the coffee, which wasn’t bad. He sampled the pie, which was excellent.
And he watched, without being obvious about it.
More customers trickled in and out over the next half hour. Some came for coffee and left with their ubiquitous paper cups and preoccupied expressions; a few lingered to chat with the staff behind the counter, which included several young women and only one young man.
A couple sat enjoying coffee, pastries, and a quiet conversation, clearly in no hurry to leave.
A woman with a laptop arrived to get coffee and settle down to work, or check her e-mail or social media sites, or surf the Net, or whatever she was doing. A teenager showed up, bought what he and the staff laughingly referred to as “milk with a little coffee,” and then went to one of the provided laptops and settled down to what looked like an online game.
Just as outside, no one appeared tense or on edge. In fact, the occasional chats at the counter erupted more than once into quiet laughter, and the staff behind the counter appeared unfailingly cheerful.
Okay, just one odd murder. So maybe that’s not so unusual. Nothing worth talking about, for most people. So what if this town hadn’t had a murder in a decade or so until two days ago, when they had a really odd one. Maybe nobody’s that bothered. Maybe Melanie’s wrong in believing it’s bigger than murder, worse than murder.
Maybe . . . maybe it’s just Melanie.
On some level of himself, he was aware of being hunted. Not frightened, because the voices had told him he didn’t have to worry about the hunters; there was a place in the plan for them as well.
So he didn’t worry.
There were other things to occupy him. At first, it had been much easier to be God’s avenging sword. He had felt so powerful, suffused with the light of justice. It had been so easy to snatch the first two from under the very noses of their friends and carry them off. Easy to keep them quiet with the injections. And easy to punish them. Though he was still uneasily confused by the fact that they somehow got all bruised and battered long before he used his avenging sword to mete out justice.