by Todd Ritter
All of it, the whole damn headache-inducing mess, was so great Henry thought he’d go mad. He knew about madness. It was a staple of most of his favorite operas. Yet they never addressed his type of situation. In the operas, characters went insane held captive by one great obsession, usually love. They weren’t encumbered by several of them, all of them equally heavy. That left Henry with no frame of reference, no idea how to tame the intensifying vortex in his head.
So he walked, his pace never wavering as he moved locomotivelike across the sidewalks of Perry Hollow. First, it was Main Street, which was quickly clearing out as evening approached. Next, it was across the town square, equally as empty. It wasn’t until he hit the side streets that Henry realized someone was watching him.
He knew because of a strange sensation he couldn’t explain, let alone describe. It was a warmth at his back, as if a laser had been pointed there. When he turned around, he saw the shape of a man walking about a hundred yards behind him. The same man had been behind him on Main Street and in the square. Henry had just been too preoccupied to notice it.
But now he couldn’t help but notice.
He was being followed.
Immediately, he thought of the two fax machines dumped outside his apartment. Kat had been worried about that. Henry wasn’t.
Until now.
Now, he wondered if the man following him was the same person who had made those deliveries. And if so, Henry didn’t want to find out what was now on his agenda.
He glanced back again. The sun was positioned behind the man, so all Henry could see was a silhouette. If he wanted to get a good look at his tracker, he’d have to be blunt about it.
Turning around, Henry started running toward him. The man didn’t stop walking. He kept moving forward until Henry could make out a pink face, a police uniform, a cross affixed to the fabric.
It was Deputy Carl Bauersox, who nodded and said, “Evening, Mr. Goll.”
He pronounced it ghoul, although Henry knew it wasn’t intentional. That rudeness was a product of the Gazette staff alone.
“Are you following me?”
The deputy’s face turned a darker shade of pink. “Sorry about that. Was just wondering where you were off to.”
“Why?”
“Chief’s orders.”
Henry should have known. Kat’s concerned thoughts had turned into concerned actions. Now she had the police tailing him.
“How long were you going to follow me?”
“Until you got home safely.”
“And then?”
“Then I was told to hang around a bit and see if you left your apartment. If you did, I was supposed to make sure you made it safely to wherever you were going.”
“Why don’t you just give me a police escort?”
His sarcasm flew right over the head of Carl, who said, “I’ll ask the chief about it.”
“Instead, tell Chief Campbell I can take care of myself,” Henry replied. “Better yet, I’ll tell her myself. Point me in the right direction.”
Carl did, telling him where Kat lived. When Henry resumed walking, he heard Carl take two footsteps behind him.
“Don’t follow me, Carl.”
The deputy backed off and reluctantly switched direction, trudging toward Main Street. Henry moved forward, crossing several more blocks until he reached a two-story house with a patrol car parked in the driveway. Just past the car was something else unusual—a girl.
She was difficult to spot, hiding in the shade of a maple tree in Kat’s front yard. Standing with her arms at her sides, she stared at the grass at her feet. She seemed to Henry like someone hypnotized—silent, motionless, the living dead.
Henry stopped and called to her.
“Hey, are you okay?”
The girl didn’t answer, which caused more alarm than if she had.
He approached her cautiously. Creeping into the yard, he said, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
It wasn’t until Henry actually touched her that the girl responded. He tapped her on the shoulder and she spun around, terrified. Henry took in her tear-smeared raccoon eyes, her too-skimpy clothes. Her skin was porcelain pale, just like his. Going by skin tone alone, they could have been brother and sister.
“Is something wrong?”
The girl’s white face moved up and down in a tentative nod. She then twisted her neck to glance toward Kat’s house again.
“Do you know Chief Campbell?”
The girl nodded again.
“Do you need help?”
This time she started to shake her head. But she changed her mind halfway through it, and the shake transformed into another nod.
“Troy,” she said. “It’s about Troy.”
“Troy Gunzelman?”
“I think—” Sobs interrupted her words, releasing the sentence in fits and starts. “I-I think I-I know who killed him.”
TWENTY-ONE
After the bad news about the fax machine, Nick Donnelly volunteered to make dinner, an offer Kat couldn’t refuse, even though she knew there would be two additional mouths to feed. But when he arrived and found out her son and his best friend would be joining them, he took the news in stride, saying, “Good thing I brought a ton of food.”
His good nature continued throughout the evening, entertaining James and Jeremy with jokes and stories while he made eggplant parmesan. The boys loved the food, grateful not to be subjected to the Hamburger Helper and tater tots that Kat had been planning. After dinner, Nick even offered to do the dishes, which Kat politely—and regretfully—turned down.
“You have a lovely home,” Nick said as he cleared the table and brought the dishes to the sink. “And your son is great.”
He was just being polite. Kat’s house was modest at best. On both floors, the singular design scheme was organized chaos. Worn sofas sat next to antiques inherited from her mother. The walls held a mixture of family photos, mass-produced prints picked up at Walmart and James’s artwork from school. And there was clutter everywhere—old newspapers, James’s toys, a week’s worth of clean laundry she hadn’t had time to fold. The place was a mess, but to her and James it was home.
As for her son, Kat appreciated the compliment. It was hard raising a son with special needs, especially without a father figure around to help. She had to act as both mother and father, nurturing one moment, stern the next. After ten years of trial and error, Kat felt she had reached the right balance, although getting to that point had been exhausting.
James welcomed Nick with unbridled enthusiasm and not the suspicion he presented to most strangers. And Nick treated James like he was an average ten-year-old boy, asking him about sports, dogs, girls. Both he and Jeremy hovered around Nick as he helped clear the table, bombarding him with questions.
“Come on, guys,” Kat said. “Go upstairs and play. It’s time to give Lieutenant Donnelly some peace and quiet.”
Both boys groaned as they trudged upstairs to James’s bedroom.
“They’re good kids,” Nick said.
“I can only take credit for one of them. But thank you. And dinner was delicious, by the way. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“My grandmother taught me. She made sure I knew my way around a kitchen.”
“I barely know where mine is.”
“You have other things to worry about.”
Although he was talking about the murders, Kat projected his words onto her personal life until they took on another meaning. She had James to worry about, and spending so much time working and trying to provide for him took away from the things other, better moms did. Like cook decent meals and follow through on promises to watch the fireworks.
“It’s hard,” she said. “This balance of work and motherhood.”
“It probably helps to have a husband,” Nick said. “That is, assuming you don’t have a Mr. Campbell stashed around here somewhere.”
“Nope.” Kat wriggled her unadorned ring finger. “He’s in Montana. I’m
here. And I sold the ring for cash during a trip to Atlantic City. I was happy to have the thing off me. It had started to feel like—”
“A weight?”
Kat nodded. “Exactly.”
As she stood at the sink, the urge to change the subject overwhelmed her. She focused on the dishes, plunging them into the sudsy water until Nick got the hint. When he did speak again, it was about the investigation.
“I know you’re worried,” he said. “About the other fax machines.”
Kat grabbed a sponge and started scrubbing a plate. She was worried, and she took it out on the tomato sauce dried onto the dish.
“Four machines,” she said. “One of them used before George’s murder. Another before Troy’s. That means he’s planning two more.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
The flatness of Nick’s voice indicated that even he didn’t believe this.
“On a lighter note,” Kat said, “we had almost twenty tips from concerned citizens.”
“And I bet all of them are completely useful and totally accurate.”
Kat recapped the messages Lou had taken. A dozen callers suspected their neighbors. Five more suspected their own spouses, which didn’t bode well for Perry Hollow’s divorce rate. Adrienne Wellington called to suspect Jasper Fox. Jasper Fox called to suspect Adrienne Wellington.
“And the last caller,” Kat said, “claimed it to be the work of aliens. But I suspect that might have been a crank call.”
“Did anyone say anything about Caleb Fisher?”
“Nope.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I had a trooper check into his past. He’s clean. Divorced. No kids. Works hard half the year. Relaxes the other half. And when George Winnick was killed, he was apparently attending a financial conference in London.”
“So the suspect list grows smaller,” Kat said.
She had just started to wash another dish when the doorbell rang. The noise sent James shooting out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Nick’s visit had wound him up, and the anticipatory clatter of his footsteps made it clear he was hoping for more excitement from another unexpected visitor.
From the kitchen, she heard him open the front door. That was followed by a deep, quiet voice asking, “Is your mother home?”
“Mom,” James called. “It’s the man who was in the car with us.”
Kat experienced a pang of panic when she entered the living room and saw Henry Goll standing at the door. Every time he appeared, bad news tagged along with him.
“I’m sorry to bother you like this,” he said. “But I think this is important.”
“What’s wrong?”
Henry stepped aside, revealing Amber Lefferts. She was crying, the tears mixing with her mascara to create black streaks on her cheeks.
“I have information about Troy’s killer,” she said.
Kat pulled her inside and shooed James upstairs. In the kitchen, she sat Amber down and made her a cup of tea. The babysitter’s crying had subsided, but so had her voice. While Kat tried to coax information out of her, Amber stared into her teacup, as if the answer to all of life’s most important questions rested at its bottom.
“Do you think you’re ready to talk?” Kat asked.
Amber’s reply was meek. “Yes.”
“Good. Now tell us why you think you know who killed Troy.”
A lightning bolt of fear flashed in the girl’s red-ringed eyes.
“You have to promise not to tell my parents.”
“This is just between us,” Kat said, gesturing across the table to where Henry and Nick sat. “We’re all friends here. You can trust us.”
Amber remained adamant. “You need to promise.”
“I promise. Now tell us why.”
“Because,” she began, on the brink of tears again, “I met him.”
“Where did you meet him, honey?” Kat put an arm over the girl’s shoulder. When Amber sniffed, Kat offered her a napkin to use as a tissue.
“I don’t want to say,” Amber said as she wiped her nose. “I’ll get in trouble.”
“I’ve already promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. If this is the man who killed Troy, then you’re doing the right thing by talking. Now, please, tell us what happened.”
Amber had calmed down enough to speak a full sentence without sobbing. Even so, Kat handed her another napkin in case she started up again.
“I knew Troy,” Amber said. “We were—”
“Friends,” Kat volunteered when she struggled to come up with a proper word to describe their relationship.
Amber seemed okay with that description. “We were parked in his car the other night.”
Kat didn’t ask what they were doing in Troy’s Mustang. She could figure it out without Amber’s help. She had been a teenager once. She knew what parked cars were for.
“We were off Old Mill Road, close to where Mr. Winnick was found. That started Troy talking about how Mr. Winnick was killed. You know, in the coffin.”
Kat certainly remembered. The image was etched on her brain like a fresh tattoo, bright and blood-specked.
“Both of us wondered if he was still alive when he was put in there,” Amber continued. “I mentioned how awful that would feel, to be buried alive. Troy told me he knew how it felt. He asked me if I wanted to find out, too.”
“How would you be able to find out?”
“He told me he knew a guy.”
“What kind of guy?”
“One who buried people. Just for a little bit. They pay him and he puts them in a coffin and buries them so they get the full experience.”
Other than being a hit man, Kat couldn’t think of a worse way to make money. Even prostitution was more respectable than burying people alive. The fact that it was going on in her town mortified her.
“You didn’t do this, did you?” she asked, unable to keep herself from sounding judgmental.
When Amber started crying again, Kat knew the answer was yes.
“Please, please, please don’t tell my parents. You can’t.”
“I won’t,” Kat said. “You can trust me. Now tell me where it happened.”
“Oak Knoll Cemetery.”
“In the cemetery itself?”
“Yes,” Amber said. “There was a hole in the ground. And a coffin. I thought it would be easy, but it was dark. So dark. And cramped. I lasted, like, five seconds before screaming. I couldn’t help it. I was so scared. I started screaming and they got me out of the coffin. Then I ran home.”
Her sobs were so hard they shook the entire table. “It was the last time I ever saw Troy.”
Kat hugged her, stroking her hair and whispering that everything would be all right. But the assurances came out sounding fake and hollow. She didn’t know if everything would be all right. So instead of lying, she simply stopped talking.
Nick then spoke up, asking the one question that needed to be answered.
“The man in the cemetery. What was his name?”
“Lucas,” Amber said. “Lucas Hatcher.”
Ten minutes later, Amber was in the living room, pretending to be entertained by James and Jeremy. In the kitchen, Kat conferred with Nick.
“What do you think we should do?”
“Go to that cemetery right now and haul him in,” Nick said.
“But what Amber told us isn’t enough justification,” Kat said. “Besides, I promised her I wouldn’t get her involved in any of this.”
“Then we’ll catch him in the act.”
“When he’s burying someone?”
“Sure. We fix someone up with a wire, get him to hire Lucas, and then bust him when the burying starts. Certainly that’s grounds for hauling him in and asking a few questions. It’s just like a drug sting, only without the narcotics.”
There was no doubt Nick was serious, but logistics weren’t on their side. The police department didn’t have enough equipment required. In fact, it didn’t have any.
“Where are we g
oing to get a wire?” Kat asked.
“I have one in the trunk of my car,” Nick said. “We’ll use that.”
“Second question: Who’s going to wear it? Carl and I can’t because Lucas knows who we are. He’ll realize something is up the moment he sees us.”
Nick shrugged. “I’ll wear it.”
“He knows you, too,” Kat reminded him. “He saw you in the cemetery after George was killed.”
“Then what’s your suggestion? Rudy and Cassie would never go for it, but maybe Tony would.”
A third voice erupted in the kitchen. “I’ll do it.”
It was Henry, who had been forgotten during their conversation.
“I’ll do it,” he repeated. “If it helps you catch this guy, then count me in.”
Kat’s response was instantaneous. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
“But I’m volunteering,” Henry said. “I want to help.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m responsible for the safety of everyone in Perry Hollow. Including you. And I refuse to put a civilian in harm’s way. I shouldn’t have done it yesterday, but you forced me into it.”
Nick rose and placed both hands palms down on the table. “I don’t think we have any other choice.”
“Thank you for agreeing with me,” Kat said, nodding. But when Nick bit his bottom lip, she realized he wasn’t agreeing with her. He was siding with Henry.
“Come on, Kat. You want to see what this Hatcher guy is up to, right?”
“Yes, but something bad could happen.”
“Like what?”
“Like Henry dying, for instance,” she said. It was harsh, but since a simple no didn’t do anything to sway Henry, maybe the worst-case scenario would.
It didn’t.
“I’m fully aware of the risks,” Henry said. “And I’m still willing to do it.”
Both men stared expectantly at Kat, who refused to budge.
“No,” she said. “And that’s the last I’ll say on the matter.”
TWENTY-TWO
Pissed off.
That’s how Nick felt. Pissed off and taking names.
It was a common state police phrase used to describe a trooper’s desire to catch a bad guy. It also summed up Nick’s mood. So did angry. And exasperated. And most maddening of all, disappointed. After having virtually no real leads and no tips, a juicy one just dropped in their laps, yet Kat seemed content to do nothing about it.